


Mistletoe and Mayhem

by HilaryParker54, notenuffcaffeine



Series: The Parent Pack [4]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Supernatural, Teen Wolf (TV), The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Alpha Derek, Alpha Scott, Christmas Fluff, Christmas Sweaters, F/M, Family Fluff, Gen, M/M, Mistletoe, Nymphs & Dryads, POV Multiple, Santa hats, Stilinski Family Feels, Wolf Derek, alpha mel, and it has plot!, and other trouble, archers in beacon hills, blackmail-worthy christmas joy, crossovers for christmas, hijinks of the supernatural variety, parent pack, pie!, sherlock in beacon hills, winchesters in beacon hills
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-27
Updated: 2014-03-31
Packaged: 2018-01-06 07:43:03
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 25
Words: 71,969
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1104219
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HilaryParker54/pseuds/HilaryParker54, https://archiveofourown.org/users/notenuffcaffeine/pseuds/notenuffcaffeine
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“So what are we doing for Christmas?” asked Allison as she hung a gaudy glittered snowflake the size of her head from the window.  Scott lugged another box of decorations into the room and made an annoyed face.</p>
<p>“I’m not sure.  Mom said she’s got surprise company coming in, and that could get weird,” he said.</p>
<p>“Weird?” asked Lydia.  “Company should not be weird at Christmas.  I’ll have to talk to her about her choices.”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>...or... How the Beacon Hills Packs Spent their Christmas while dealing with A British Invasion, not-evil Hunters, and SHIELD vacationers...</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [chi1013](https://archiveofourown.org/users/chi1013/gifts).



> The following crack is brought to you by and dedicated to chi1013, who doesn't think she's seen anything good this year....
> 
> Author's Important Notes:  
> 1) this is basically one big, fluffy, missing-scene-fic for the Parent Pack series. It's set right after "Belief" and a few weeks prior to "Marked."  
> 2) If you don't want to read through the Parent Pack, you don't haaaaave to. (Uh, check the crossover list... none of those guys are anywhere else in that fic-pack.) Important things to know are that Talia Hale is alive and mostly-well, Melissa McCall is an alpha of her own pack (the Sheriff, Chris Argent, and Peter and Talia Hale), Derek and Stiles are trouble magnets and also new at being Sterek, and any references to "Casey" are referring to Sheriff Stilinski.  
> 3) The SPN boys should be spoiler-free. (I tried really hard to get Cas in here, but I could not achieve spoiler-free that way...)  
> 4) Sherlock and John should be spoiler-free, unless you count "SHERLOCK DIDN'T DIE" as a spoiler, in which case... I can't help you there.  
> 5) This will be posted at a much more leisurely pace than the Parent Pack. But it's currently set to be another long one...  
> 6) Alas, due to the holiday season, this is mostly unbeta'd beyond my editing like an addict.
> 
> ...And I think that's the FAQ for this one. If I missed some, I'll edit! :)
> 
> \----------

Mrs. Hudson was feeling festive in light of her tenant’s surprise return to life and had bedecked the halls with garland, a small tree in the window, and a sprig of mistletoe over the refrigerator door. All of which had notes on them with very firm instructions not to touch because she knew that her surly resurrected tenant would touch them in destructive ways if allowed to think it would go unnoticed.

Dr. John Watson was impressed that Sherlock Holmes had left the decorations alone for a whole three days. He scrunched his nose at the mistletoe and got into the biscuits Mrs. Hudson had left on the table for them, then turned back to the body slumped in his favorite chair in a smoking jacket. Sherlock stared intently at the laptop computer and knew exactly where John was but pretended quite well that he didn’t. John presented himself and his stolen treats in the man’s easier line of sight around the laptop edge.

"Sherlock. Have you plans for Christmas?" he asked.

The undead investigator arched an eyebrow. "I plan to work."

With a roll of his eyes, Watson shrugged the answer off as unaccepted. "Yes, your newly restored adoring fans need fodder."

"Hardly,” scoffed Sherlock. He hadn’t looked over at John once and seemed content to stare at the bright screen. “I wrote them a book. They'll be distracted reading for the holidays. And I really don't care."

John really didn’t care about the book, still perturbed about Sherlock’s disappearing act enough that he rejected the man’s accomplishments during the missing three years on principle. "Did you know I have a nephew in America?"

"Really? That somehow escaped my investigations." Sherlock’s flat tone said otherwise. John nipped off another bit of the frosted baked-goods and sat himself in the chair opposite Sherlock.

"You're in a mood," he observed.

"No I'm not," said Sherlock. John stared at him openly, waved a hand to rewind the conversation three seconds.

"You just admitted to _not_ knowing something."

Sherlock huffed at him. "Because it was a plebeian assumption on your part that I did not know how to use _Ancestry.com_ as an investigative tool. I thought we were being facetious. Of course I know about the Stilinskis."

John sighed. He let the ramifications of Sherlock’s statement hang in the air a moment. Then... "I think I should visit them for the holidays."

Holmes shrugged his shoulders and kept his attention focused on his computer. "Well, if you think so."

John nodded. "I booked us tickets. We leave in two days."

Sherlock finally looked over at him, entirely disapproving. "We? I just told you I was working."

With a nod to acknowledge the fact, John still raised an eyebrow at Sherlock. "Have you a case?"

Apparently the question was so irrelevant it was unexpected by the genius investigator and the pending caseload should have been a foregone conclusion on John’s part. Sherlock made the face that told John this but his partner refused to accept a facial expression as sufficient response.

“No, not yet...” said Sherlock finally. John smirked at him.

"Then yes, _we_ are going. You owe me. And if I leave you unattended for even ten minutes you'll go off and die again so no. You're going to California for two weeks and you'll damn well like it."

Sherlock blinked at him. "...California."

"Yes, they live in a small town called Beacon Hills and..." John stopped talking when Sherlock aimed another face at him, this one more of the arrogant-and-still-smarter-than-you variety, which John thought entirely inappropriate considering he had just cornered Sherlock into a plane-trip. He had expected a little more personal gloating time. Sherlock didn’t seem about to let him have it.

"I told you I know where they live, John. Stop talking and let me think." The man glared John into shutting his mouth and not moving. They sat in silence for nearly a minute, John trying to figure out what contacts Sherlock could possibly have in California that would have him already plotting to hijack John’s vacation plans. That’s what he was doing, John could tell. He could tell and he didn’t like it and...

"Yes, I think we'll go to your family's for Christmas this year. Excellent idea, John. A vacation in America."

John’s hopeful mood faded, the notion of easing himself gently into his friend’s return gone as he realized his vacation plans had likely already turned into work plans.

"Right. Okay. Why?" he asked skeptically.

Sherlock assumed a perfectly innocent air that was completely ingenuine. "Because I owe you and if you let me out of sight for-"

The line was certainly familiar and John scowled at Sherlock’s terrible acting skills. "No! Tell me what you've got locked up in that massively irritating cranium or we will _not_ go to America for Christmas."

Sherlock pointed at him around the laptop screen. "But you bought tickets."

John glared. "Sherlock."

The man sighed and sat up, then passed the laptop across to John. He had already pulled up a search result page that painted a very harrowing tale of Quiet Beacon Hills as the Murder Capitol of America. John crossed his arms and scowled at the screen until Sherlock took it back.

"Damnit."

 

***

 

“She was your what?”

It wasn’t that Natasha really raised her voice ever. She didn’t have to. The woman didn’t even have to demand respect, it was just handed to her, because if it wasn’t, she would obviously obtain it in other ways that only certain types of people found entertaining. Clint Barton happened to be one of those certain types of people. But he also noticed that the woman hadn’t raised her voice yet still placed all the right emphasis in all the right places and he knew he had just walked himself into the doghouse. He cleared his throat and shrugged at the steering wheel.

“We dated, like, once. It was the nurse thing, you know?” he said. Natasha stared at him.

“No, I really don’t,” she said. Then she shook her head and turned to look out the passenger window. “Maybe you shouldn’t tell me.”

That was definitely a not-raised-voice emphasis on the _shouldn’t_ , which meant Clint had two choices: assume she really meant _shouldn’t_ , or assume she really meant _should_. And it wasn’t that Clint was a stupid man. It was more that he figured he was a safe man while sitting behind the steering wheel of a moving vehicle. He grinned and split the difference.

"I was passing through town, did some involuntary time in the hospital and it all went nowhere aside from a beautiful friendship..."

It worked. Natasha left the window to stare at him again instead. "Are we really having this conversation?"

Clint waved a hand. “Look, it completely doesn’t matter, okay? The summary is: We’re friends. I just want to check in on her. Her kid’s name showed up on the boards a couple times in the last year or so, so they’re having some kind of trouble out here...”

Natasha raised an eyebrow at his logic, and even her tone went up a notch higher. “I don’t think the ex-patient is really going to magically solve her kid's problems.”

  
It honestly surprised Clint that she hadn’t actually caught on by now. “ _Friends_ , Nat!” he blurted. “ _Friends_ solve problems. I have very few of these mythical creatures known as _friends_ , I want to check in on _that_ one for Christmas. And I want you to go with me. Is that really impossible?”

The woman rolled her eyes and looked back out the window again. “You’re impossible, Barton. Really.”

The driver sighed and shook his head. “Ha-ha. Will you come with me to California for a few days? Have Christmas somewhere it isn’t snowing?”

That seemed to catch Natasha’s interest as she looked out at the snow-covered streets around their snow-covered car. “That part I’ll consider,” she said. “What about Florida?”

“Nat!”

“Fine. California.”

“Thank you.”

All was quiet as they drove. Clint considered turning on the radio again since turning the radio _off_ had been his first mistake of the evening. Natasha looked sideways at him.

“There better not be any snow or I might shoot you,” she said. Clint nodded, accepting that as fair warning.

“No snow. I promise,” he said.

“Thor doesn’t control the weather,” Natasha reminded him, smug. “Just thunder.”

“I promise,” repeated Clint. “No snow.”

 

***

 

The sheriff's office was quiet for once. The holidays meant more calls, burglaries and muggings went up. Melissa didn't like _that_ meaning of the season but she had long ago noticed a rise in car accidents and suicide attempts, so everyone was unstable in the winter. She stuck to tracking the weird patterns in nursing and Casey could stick with the weird patterns in the sheriff's sheriffing, and Mel could get back to her time off. After she dropped off the bad news. She wasn’t supposed to be driving yet with her arm still in a sling, and Casey and Talia would both be mad at her for it later. But at least she brought him lunch to make up for it, right?

The good sheriff was back behind the desk and Melissa scooted around it to greet him. After a kiss and a careful hug - he was going to _baby her_ until her arm was out of a sling, it was adorable, really. - she leaned against the window near his chair.

"I'm suddenly getting the impression this wasn't just an impromptu picnic at the sheriff's station idea," Casey observed.

"Really? I can't just come have lunch?" asked Mel, tone probably a little too innocent.

"Sure, almost any time. You can take over Stiles' desk over there and camp out whenever you want to fight Kyle for it," said Casey gamely. He nodded toward the bag of Chinese take-out in front of him on the desk. "It's just that lunch-in together usually requires two meals and not just one."

"Well, yeah, I guess there is that," said Mel, smirking. She shook her head. "So remember those plans we had for Christmas? Just family things and then maybe a dinner with _everybody_?"

The sheriff bobbed his head in an affirmative. "Sure, although maybe we can skip out on the pack with this party at the Martins' house. And her folks wanted us over..."

"Yeah, that's true..."

"I'm working and can't go."

"You chicken!"

Stilinski's only response to the accusation was a smirk.

"Fine," said Melissa. "Just don't expect to live this down anytime soon."

"Of course not," said Stilinski. Mel sighed.

"So it turns out I'm going to have company for Christmas and I'll probably kick Kyle out of my place tonight and let _them_ stay at the house while they’re here."

"So this is a two fold warning?" asked Casey. "First, Christmas plans are out, and then second, Kyle's going to start bitching about having to find a place to live and generally make himself a joy."

"That about sums it up," said Mel.

"My turn for the second surprise then, huh?" Casey teased. Mel raised an eyebrow.

"Claudia's brother is coming out from London this week. So the Stilinskis are going to be a plus-two for about two weeks."

Mel blinked at him. "Damn, Koz. We couldn't have planned this any better if we tried."

Casey nodded. "If anyone asks, we'll tell them we did. Come across like _geniuses_."

 

***

 

Christmas music played, static and air interfering with the signal as rain pounded the windshield. The big black Impala carried on through the night completely unimpressed by Northern California’s definition of _weather_. It had seen so much worse and survived. The water on the windshield was just barely more than a sufficient bath. Dean Winchester tapped idly at the steering wheel and shrugged at his passenger.

"The last thing I wanna deal with is more angels, Sam. I don't care where we end up, I just don't want any monsters for goddamn once until this is sorted out," he said, completely genuine in his request for a few days of peace. Sam looked at him like he understood, but he still thought his brother was stupid.

" _Beacon Hills_ is hardly a monster-free-zone, Dean," said Sam.

"So? There's _other_ hunters. It can be their problem,” replied Dean. “We can't exactly vacation in _Hawaii_ , so I'll take a turn sleeping on someone else's watch. And we’re already in their backyard..."

Sam frowned at him and shook his head. "The Argents have had a really bad year.  Chris _retired_..."

"Dude.” The look on his face made it clear that Dean was going to rearrange his brother’s face if Sam was stupid enough to give the wrong answer. “Are you saying we've been underwater basket weaving for the last twelve months or something?"

"No. I'm saying maybe we shouldn't drag our problems to their doorstep,” Sam told him patiently. “Word is that Victoria Argent died last spring. I don’t think they’re going to have a great Christmas."

That was news to Dean and the man paused to consider it. "Damn."

Sam nodded. "Yeah."

"She was one of the hottest cougars we had left on the force. Made a mean pie."

Sam stared at his brother in disappointment. "I'm... Going to pretend I didn't hear that."

"We should go distract them for Christmas," said Dean. He seemed to genuinely believe that it would be at least helpful to the hunter family. Sam shook his head.

"You are seriously messed up, man."

Dean sighed and scrubbed at his face, driving one-handed as he leaned on the window. "Tired. I'm _tired_ , Sammy. Don't push a desperate man."

Giving up, Sam waved his hands in the air. "Fine. But this was your idea. Remember that."

 

***


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy 2014!!
> 
>  
> 
> \--------

-December 22nd-

  
“So what are we doing for Christmas?” asked Allison as she hung a gaudy glittered snowflake the size of her head from the window. Scott lugged another box of decorations into the room and made an annoyed face.

  
“I’m not sure. Mom said she’s got surprise company coming in, and that could get weird,” he said.

  
“Weird?” asked Lydia. “Company should not be weird at Christmas. I’ll have to talk to her about her choices.”

  
“I guess they dated once but now they’re friends or something,” said Scott. Stiles’ head poked up from behind the couch where he was trying to assemble a lawn ornament. With the cuts not quite healed on Stiles’ neck and face from the group’s misadventure the week before, it looked disturbingly like Santa had put up a good fight behind the sofa.

  
“I’m sorry, she’s _what_?” said Stiles. “What about the _Koz_ situation?”

  
“It’s still a Koz situation,” mocked Scott, smirking. “It’s probably gonna get weird just in time for Christmas though.”

  
“Fine,” said his friend. He still sounded bitter but seemed to force himself onto a different track. “My uncle’s coming out from England, so I trump your _weird_ with _British accents_.”

  
Lydia straightened imperiously and gave Stiles the side-eye. “A British Uncle, you say?” she asked. “How old.”

  
Stiles gave her a dirty look. “Old. Mom's _older_ brother. And I guess he’s bringing his work partner or boyfriend-or-whatever. I dunno. So no poaching the accent. He is _not_ wolf-bait.”

  
Lydia rolled her eyes and went back to her notepad. “I don’t care. So long as you’re all still coming to my dinner party. And you can stay for the after party, too. If you can behave, anyway.”

  
“We damn well better be on the invite-list,” huffed Stiles. “Otherwise you can fight your own losing battle with Santa and his inflatable reindeer over here.”

  
Allison's phone chirped. And then Isaac's and Scott's both went off at the same time. Allison made a face as she checked hers.

  
"I'm supposed to go home," she said. "Now."

  
Scott and Isaac traded phones, confused. " _Under no circumstances_ are we to go with you," Scott reported.

  
Stiles yelped as his phone vibrated and screeched out a godawful ringtone. He checked the text before scrambling to his feet and tripping over the unassembled lawn ornament. "I gotta go pick up Derek and Cora."

  
"When is Derek getting a new car?" asked Lydia, annoyed at the sudden loss of help.

  
"He's gotta help his mom get back on her feet first," said Stiles. He paused when his phone went off again. He checked the less obnoxious ringtone’s message and frowned.

  
“What the... I...” Stiles frowned in confusion at the phone and then took it over to Scott. “She’s your mother. What is she doing to me?” he asked bluntly. Scott stared at him in confusion. Stiles patiently pointed out the message from Chris Argent.

  
“Get your ass over here now. Get Derek and Cora out of here,” Stiles read off. He flicked the screen. “And then from your mother, and I quote: Ignore Chris. Stay at Lydia’s.” He turned an exasperated stare on his best friend. “So translate.”

  
Scott stared back at him and shrugged. He held up his and Isaac’s phones in response. “We’re not supposed to go either. Mr. Argent’s orders.”

  
That didn’t impress Stiles and he pulled another annoyed face, staring at the twin messages on the phones. He harrumphed and waved dismissively. A moment later he was digging through the pile of jackets for his, in a very big hurry to leave. Allison was much calmer and amused.

  
"And Derek wins," she observed. “Even though it’s raining and you have no car.” Stiles had found his jacket and was leaving as he shrugged into it, otherwise the glare promised she would have lost that particular battle of wits. Stiles had his priorities lately. He walked backwards on his way to the door and held up a hand, waving a set of keys.

  
“ _Scotty_! I’m stealing your mom’s car. Don’t tell my dad,” he called back to the group. Scott’s jaw dropped and his eyes widened. He looked accusingly to Allison but she was too busy smirking back after Stiles as the more determined member of their gathering disappeared out the door.

 

***

 

The nice part about stealing a car was getting to drive it appropriately. It had been _weeks_ since the Jeep was wrecked and, after the _first time_ he had put the truck into a _tree_ , his dad hadn’t let him drive since Tahoe. He was so dead if anyone busted him, so Stiles enjoyed the opportunity. He made it to the Argents' condo before Allison did and was soon knocking on Talia's new apartment door one floor above it. He only knocked because he tried the door first and it was locked. So he waited. When Derek answered it, Stiles held up his phone to show off the weird message from Chris Argent.

  
"Why was I told to come get you?" he asked.

  
"Hunters stopped by Chris’ place and decided to stay," said Derek, growly at the situation.

  
"Yep, we're going." Stiles grabbed Derek's arm by the jacket sleeve and started to pull him from the door. Then he stopped and turned back. "Wait. We gotta get your sister. Then we go."

  
Derek smirked at him and shook his head. "No, we stay."

  
"Uh. _Hunters_. Downstairs. Hunters who hunt _people_. We should go."

  
"My mom is downstairs."

  
"What!" squawked Stiles. Derek looked up and down the hall before grabbing Stiles' shoulder and tugging him inside. The teen let himself be tugged and brushed into Derek in retaliation, shoving Derek away from the door as it closed. Stiles matched his steps and stayed in his space.

  
"Hi," he said, finding himself suddenly well within kissing range. He pecked a greeting kiss just before the chance passed him by and then grinned. " _Now_ will you tell me why I'm here to save you from hunters and we're just going to hang out over their heads instead?"

  
Derek huffed at him. Stiles arched an eyebrow. "I'll go ask Cora about it," he warned. "You know I will."

  
"Mom and Mel were down there using their kitchen because of the party tomorrow. Somebody wanted pie," said Derek. "And Mom doesn't have any baking _anything_. And Mel’s oven needs replaced before it can produce pies that will meet _Lydia’s_ standards." Derek pulled a face as he repeated what he had been told earlier in the day.

  
"Now we know what to get them for Christmas," offered Stiles. Derek wasn't amused. "But you checked in with your mom? She's okay?"

  
"She's stuck in an apartment with three hunters. _I_ don't think that is okay. And apparently neither does Chris if he sent you an SOS."

  
The entry hall went oddly quiet as Stiles weighed out the situation against Derek’s current non-confrontational stance on it. It was apparently hard to sort out. With Stiles still in his space and frowning, Derek surprised him with a kiss to make the frown stop. “Hi.”

  
It worked. Stiles grinned at him. “Well, I was going to march my not-a-wolf self down there and save your mom but then you go and do _that_...”

 

***

 

The apartment smelled like cinnamon and apples and allspice. It was something Allison had missed coming home to, and as soon as she walked in the door she turned for the kitchen. Stiles had been sent after Derek and Cora, but she had been called home, so what was so important about _pie_ -

  
“Hey Allison,” greeted Melissa McCall, somewhat subdued from her usual by an obvious quiet caution. The teenager gave a smile in return, the look fading uncertainly into confusion when she saw Talia Hale tugging a pie from the oven. It amused her once she got it into her head that Talia could bake. But it took a minute because pies were not the first thing the young hunter thought of when she saw an _alpha_ and a _werewolf_ in her kitchen. Talia had made such a mess of the place it looked like she had forgotten how to cook and Mel was stuck supervising because she couldn’t do a lot of the project with one arm in a sling.

  
“I hate to ask... - Honestly!- but do you guys... do you actually know what you’re doing?” Allison hung her purse and jacket over the back of a chair and started rolling up her sweater sleeves. “It looks like you’re faking it. Really...”

  
Melissa huffed, annoyed. “I haven’t had a chance to bake pies in... forever. But that doesn’t mean I’ve forgotten.”

  
“Seconded,” added Talia. Allison leaned on the countertop and looked down at the pie that had been put out to cool. The upper crust had Christmas-themed designs baked onto it and was perfectly glazed.

  
“That’s beautiful... You can’t let someone eat that!”

  
“It’s just for practice,” said Talia. Allison’s jaw went slack and she stared at the culinary art that Talia had the nerve to call _practice_.

  
Footsteps in the hall caught Allison’s attention and she turned to see a stranger in her house. She reached for the blade in her purse but Melissa caught her arm. Allison looked back at her, about to fight for it, when she saw Melissa’s smile. It was off, not quite _Mel_ , but it was a smile. Allison took the cue and stilled. The territorial alpha linked her good arm with Allison’s and stood up from her bar stool observation post.

  
“Allison, did your dad tell you you have guests for a few days?” Mel asked. “Dean and Sam Winchester. But they’re here on vacation, not for a hunt.”

  
Allison tried to keep her jaw from going suspiciously slack. She stared openly at the man just inside the kitchen, smiling and friendly at her, despite her sudden lack of social grace. “Uh... hi?”

  
Mel rolled her eyes. “Dean, this is Allison, Chris’ daughter,” she said helpfully.

  
“We won’t be here long,” Dean promised Allison, misinterpreting her surprise completely. Allison looked over her shoulder at Talia, concerned, briefly, but the woman just smiled and shook her head.

  
“The boys caused some trouble back east and they just need a place to lie low for awhile,” Talia offered up. “Your father said they could have pillows and blankets in the office.”

  
Allison nodded numbly, mentally preparing a list of words she wanted to have with her father about letting hunters in the house when there were werewolves and their non-wolf alphas around. Dean looked at Allison a little sideways before turning his attention to Talia.

  
“Speaking of... Chris said you’ve got some pie to give away?” the hunter asked the werewolf, completely oblivious. Allison suddenly let out a laugh and clapped her hand over her mouth, a second later horrified by hindsight.

  
“Sorry...” she said quickly. Even as she did, Talia distracted Dean with a plate holding a hefty slice from one of the practice-pies already cooling. The hunter latched on with a big, childish smile of thanks.

  
“I was just telling Allison I’m pretty rusty at it,” Talia warned him. “So you can be my taste-tester if that’s agreeable.”

  
“Are you kidding?” returned Dean. He had already sampled the slice of pie. “I don't care if you’re some kind of werewolf or something, if you’re in the kitchen I will taste-test anything. This is amazing...”

  
Dean broke off as Mel tried to recover from where she had misjudged her stool and nearly fallen. Even Allison looked at him in mild disbelief.

  
“What?” he asked, suspicions up and rising. Talia rolled her eyes and waved Dean off toward the den again. He looked from Talia to the other two, then seemed to shrug it off, but there was a look in his eyes that made Allison worry.

 

***

 

The Winchester boys were, in the grand scheme of hunters Chris had dealt with in the past few weeks, much more intelligent company. Probably good kids, from the few times Chris had teamed up to work with them or Singer over the years. And they didn’t get out to the west coast often, so it was nice to know they were alive and well, to socialize a little. The two old families had connections somewhere but it was back far enough that Chris knew little more than rumors about the Campbells, and everyone knew the Winchester name was cursed by the carbine. It always surprised Chris to find out the infamous Winchester boys were still alive.

  
Being retired from the life didn’t save Chris and Allison from putting up hunters in need. The business just didn’t pay well enough for any member of the network to turn out friends; they never knew when they were going to need a return favor, so it just wasn’t done. But it was a really bad time for hunter-hospitality to come into play. There was a werewolf in the condo, and her non-wolf alpha, and there were two more wolves up one floor directly above their heads.

  
Sam was too intelligent and Dean was too observant for the Argents to get out of that particular noose once they were caught in it. So far Sam hadn’t said anything though, and Chris and the young man got along alright, socializing in the den. Allison was in the kitchen babysitting Talia and Mel since they refused to abandon their pies, and Dean had gone prowling for food once the invitation had been given.

  
It wasn’t entirely unexpected when he returned to the den with a plate of pie.

  
"Hey, Argent... Man, did you know you there's a werewolf in your kitchen making pies?"

  
Even Sam blinked up at his brother, surprised by the announcement although for entirely different reasons than Chris. The use of the contraction hung Chris up just as badly as the mention of the wolf. He tensed, preparing for a fight even though he knew the Winchesters would win. " _Is_ or _was_?"

  
"Dude, _pie_!” said Dean around a mouthful of the precious pastry goodness. “Unless I find out she's feeding me human organs or babies or something, she is my new favorite monster."

  
Chris stared, slack jawed, at Dean Winchester, legend and myth and occasional blight on the existence of the hunting community. Dean rolled his eyes.  
“I have had, literally, a few _years_ of hell here,” he said. His tone was completely unconcerned and Chris wished he had a wolf in the room with them to make sure he was really hearing things right. Dean carried on as he moved to sit in the place he had vacated in search of pie.

  
“I wanted _one thing_ out of life between the 23rd of December and the 2nd of January. And that was rest. And Pie. I don’t care if you’ve got freakin’ vampires for house elves, man. I am on _vacation_ and the rest of the world can just get stuffed.”

  
“On pie?” clarified Chris, not sure if he was allowed to be amused or not.

  
With a fork full of pie, Dean did a nod that was somehow half bow. “Preferably. It would do the world a lot of good. Damn."

 

***

 


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ...annnd because we like to start out the year being generous... two in one day!!!
> 
> (Also because Sherlock happened and I just... can't deal with the world right now...)
> 
> \---------

"Are you kidding me?"

  
"Nope. I am _welcome_ to visit and make as many pies as I want. The world-famous Winchesters are on _vacation_." Safe in her own kitchen, Talia Hale shook her head, smug and bemused despite herself. She had to be the only wolf on the planet who would voluntarily hang out with hunters. Stiles could have glared. Didn’t these adults understand the relatively simple concept of _self-preservation_? How had they survived to adulthood in the first place at this rate?

"Please don't," said Stiles, sounding pained. Hunters were completely off his Christmas card list, with the possible exception of the Argents. Although if he actually had a Christmas card list and actually utilized it, he was pretty sure Chris would glare at him for the effort on principle.

"We're thinking about testing them," said Melissa. "They may be our plus-one at the Martins’ dinner party."  
Stiles choked on air. Derek looked at his mother like he needed official confirmation the two women had lost their minds. Talia grinned back at him.

"They shouldn't have known I was a wolf while I'm standing in a kitchen baking pies. _No hunter_ is that good, even in a cursed family like theirs," said Talia. "There's something going on with those two that might give us an edge toward keeping them quiet about the Argents' social group. We just have to narrow it down."

  
"By introducing them to more wolves and a banshee?!" asked Stiles. "I like my new friends, Ms. H. I like having friends, plural, that _aren't Scott_ so it's a really low bar maybe, but still, I don't want them dead for Christmas."

  
Talia would never cease to be amused by Stiles and they both knew it. She shrugged. "Mel liked them alright."

  
Stiles nodded, placating and exhausted. "She _also_ needs more friends."

  
Sitting beside Melissa at the kitchen table, Talia grinned at Stiles’ conclusion. "I won't tell her you said that."

  
"No need, since she heard." Melissa arched an eyebrow at Stiles. The teenager scrunched his nose and tossed his hands in the air.

  
"Fine. I'm going to go raid Deaton's mountain ash for the party since we might need it."

  
"He won't share that," Talia said mildly. "Not for this. You're being paranoid."

  
" _I know_ somebody with _keys_ ," returned Stiles. He held the stolen car keys up as he walked away. Mel’s eyes widened and her jaw dropped. Derek swore under his breath and followed him out of the kitchen to keep Stiles from anything larcenous.

  
“Stiles! Give me back my car!” Mel didn’t bother leaving her chair and Stiles only had to contend with Derek chasing him into the hallway. Derek beat him to the door and held it closed around him. The ensuing close-quarters game of keep-away quickly made Stiles forget why he needed the keys and he shoved them into his back pocket and backed up to the door. He grinned smugly at Derek, knowing he wouldn’t go after them with Mel and his mom just around the corner in the kitchen. The smile faltered when Derek grinned back, just as evil an expression as Stiles wore.

  
“What?” asked Stiles. Derek arched an eyebrow and leaned into the door a little more, Stiles meeting his stare and holding still like moving would break something he held dear. He let Derek ease closer and closer, into his space until Stiles stepped back and thunked against the door, cornered. He forgot about the keys. Derek hadn’t. He deftly slipped them from the pocket, and folded them into his palm in easy sight, but Stiles’ gaze didn’t waver. Derek was close enough to kiss him and get away with it, even with people just around the corner, but Stiles wasn’t even tempted to try. He was, in that very second, a little too lost in having permission just to stare and be stared at _back_. If he touched, what if he scared Derek off? Just because the thought made no sense didn’t mean it wasn’t stuck in Stiles’ head.

  
The scrape of a table chair on the tile floor startled them both from their moment. The pair of them looked back over Derek’s shoulder toward the kitchen and Derek stepped to the side to be less of a blockade. Stiles caught his eye again and Derek must have seen something because he was back on point with the key-guarding and dodged Stiles’ effort to reclaim them. He grinned at Stiles again and trotted off back to the kitchen.

  
“Stupid wolves,” complained Stiles loudly. “Unfair advantage.”

 

***

 

The _Stiles-stole-the-car_ fiasco meant that Melissa had to drive again to pick Scott up from Lydia’s party-prep, because she was a mom and didn’t actually know yet if werewolves could get pneumonia if they walked home in the rain, nor did she want him to bring home a cold that only she could suffer from. It was also the first family-time they’d had in awhile, too, since Isaac had been picked up by Allison for a movie or something that Mel didn’t really want to ask _Scott_ about.

  
Instead, he derailed himself onto the topic of her ex-almost-not-exactly-boyfriend-friend who was visiting for Christmas. The windshield wipers swiped the rain-spots from the glass and Scott frowned as if they wiped his brain blank to the same steady pace, a corner at a time. "I don't remember this guy."

Melissa gave a huff of laughter, offered up a nod and shrugged her shoulders all at once. "You were five. I'd be worried if you did."

Scott looked at her, his confusion evident by the creases in his forehead and the squinty expression. "Why?"

His mother hesitated. "... Psychological reasons."

The squinty face disappeared to a wide-eyed look of unwanted comprehension. "I don't wanna know."

Melissa nodded, tried not to smirk, because she was still his _mother_. "Nope."

There was a brief quiet and then Scott landed on a new question. "Who's he bringing?"

"Uhm.” Well, that was slightly complicated. Mel wasn’t sure how to label Natasha from what little she had heard over the years. She could guess, but if Scott repeated anything to anyone, she could get in trouble. She took the safer route: vague. “Work partner."

"What?"

"Scott. If I have to explain some things, you need to wait a few years before you re-enter the dating pool." Melissa huffed a springy curl of hair away from her eyes, refusing to be dragged into details and taking any distraction she could. He could connect the dots himself or he could just chat with Clint when the man showed up.

"Oh,” said Scott, catching on. The little light bulb happened and everything. Mel loved her kid for those moments. Scott hesitated, obviously trying to sort out how far he really wanted to dive into the subject. “And you're okay with that? It's not gonna be weird?"

  
"Not at all,” Melissa said. “I've heard about Tasha forever."

  
Her almost-an-adult son stared at the car’s faded and peeling ceiling like it had personally offended him. "This makes _no_ sense."

  
There was no helping the smirk on Mel’s face. "Someday, you'll get it."

  
Scott sat up quickly and shook his head. His hands cut through the air in quick, absolutely negative and certain movements. "No I won't. You're my _mom_. I will never _get_ this."

  
"Well. I don't see you kicking Isaac out of the house for seeing Allison without inviting you along," said Melissa. She paused, frowned at the road ahead of them. "That came out wrong. Not what I meant."

  
Scott nodded, eyebrows arched way up on his forehead.

  
"The point is you're all still friends. It's a totally normal thing," said his mom. "I am allowed one or two. And I'm rather proud of the one or two I have."

  
"So... Following your _Allison and Isaac_ analogy... You told him they could crash our Christmas because you want to make sure she's right for him?" guessed Scott, fully confident in his assessment. His mother frowned, almost pouted out the window, but it disappeared quickly.

  
She glanced at him briefly.

  
"Totally not my style, Scott. Clint's a big boy; he can handle himself just fine."

 

***

 

A major problem with single parenthood was being stuck at work when your child did something stupid. Like _steal a car_. Okay, so it was Mel’s car, and he didn’t crash it, and he didn’t get kidnapped from it, or shot at in it, and he didn’t so much as get a parking ticket, but _Stiles stole a car_. That wasn’t something Stilinski could just ignore - he was the sheriff, there were standards he expected of his own _son_... - but it was still hours before he could properly deal with it. It was also running up against a deadline with lots to do before Claudia’s brother showed up. Casey knew his son well enough to know that Stiles would use the excuse of a paranoid, busy father to blow off whatever punishment the sheriff could dream up; Casey could talk until he was blue in the face but the kid knew none of the threats would ever see the light of day.

  
“The house _will_ look like Christmas by the time your uncle gets here or he’ll kill me on behalf of your mother,” said the sheriff soberly. “Lights, trees, mistletoe, elves on shelves,-”

  
“Holy crap! Those things are scary! Are you kidding!” Stiles blurted. The sheriff looked his son right in the eye and dumped a small red-hatted elf from the store shelf into the basket. Stiles narrowed his eyes at him and put it back on the shelf... for Stilinski to knock right back into the cart. His son reached to put it back and the sheriff made a low “Nyet!” grunt and Stiles huffed and scowled and walked a step or two away from the cart.

  
“And one of them plants. The big red leaves...”

  
“Poinsettias.”

  
“Yeah, that. And a Christmas Cactus needs to live on theporch,” said Casey. Stiles arched an eyebrow and looked back at his dad, his shoulders slumped.

  
“Okay, now we’re getting pretty close to the _lying_ territory and I’m not sure that’s the message you want to be encouraging your child to send,” said Stiles.

  
“Oh, you’ll steal a car but lying to your uncle about a holiday makes you uncomfortable?” returned Stilinski. Stiles scrunched his nose and scooted a little further out of reach.

  
“Point.”

  
“Uh huh,” agreed Stilinski. “So, since I’ve obviously done a really bad job instilling the most basic of values, we’re going to _focus_ on the ones your mom wanted for a week or so.”

  
His son tossed a box of outdoor lights into the basket. It was ridiculously helpful that outdoor decorations were on major discount three days before Christmas. And that they knew at least two werewolves that could be strong-armed into climbing on the roof in the dark to hang the lights up.

  
“Did you know there’s witches in the Bible?” asked Stiles. “They do a seance and bring a dead dude back. And magicians do some funny things to cows... And Jesus didn’t like fig trees but he liked his wine.” He smirked back at his father. “Those values, right?”

  
“Asks the boy who runs with wolves,” muttered Casey. “Your mother would be fairly certain you were raised by them at this point I think.”

  
Stiles shrugged. “Pretty sure Mom’d like Ms. H...”

  
“Yeah. Mel loves her, so probably a good indication there.”

  
His son turned and walked backwards to keep with the cart. He caught sight of something on a shelf and tossed it in the cart without really looking at it, too busy staring at Casey suspiciously.

  
“What?” asked Stilinski.

  
“Are you going to tell Uncle John about _Mel_?”

  
“Figured on introducing them at least,” said Casey. “Are you going to tell your uncle about _stealing_ Mel’s _car_?”

  
Turning back to the shelves of Christmas decorations, Stiles waved his arms and dismissed Casey, annoyed. “Ohmygod.”

  
Casey smirked after him. “Don’t let me forget we have to find a tree before we leave here.”

 

***

 

"For the record, I think we would be fine renting a car," said Natasha. She sounded bored. Clint grinned at her.

  
"Yeah but this is more fun," said Clint. He shoved the piece of paper across the hood of the car at her. "Sign it. He likes you."

  
"I will not."

  
"You're wasting daylight, Nat," Clint warned. He gave the paper a little shake. "Come on. You played the guy's secretary. Can you honestly tell me he doesn't owe you a nice, friendly, four-wheeled favor? Just for Christmas?"

  
"I don't understand your obsession with this holiday," said Natasha. But she took the paper and signed it. "It's another day on the calendar."

  
"Except on Christmas, and for a few days around it, everyone is nice to each other," said Clint. "It’s this big unspoken social agreement that whatever you've done - or _are about to_ do - will be forgiven among friends and everyone agrees to stress out about money and in-laws and cooking plans instead of all the stupid stuff that gets them the rest of the year."

  
Clint moved away and pinned the note to the garage post in front of the car he was about to steal without a single moral reservation. He used his gum to make it stick while also staying minty-fresh and friendly. Then he walked back to the car and saw Natasha standing, keys in hand, by the driver's door. He grinned at her.

  
"Tony's going to kill you," she told him. "And Fury won't let me save your ass."

  
Clint shrugged. "That's okay. We get a nice drive up the pacific coast highway first. And then you can see some Christmas spirit in action."

  
Natasha frowned at him and he tilted his head at her. "Come on, Nat. Everybody needs at least one Christmas. Just to see what the fuss is about."

  
The woman seemed to agree and she let herself in to the Audi. It was one of Tony's favorite cars, but it was a few too many years out of date for the billionaire-philanthropist-playboy to take it out much anymore. They would just give her a workout for the man. Their note promised they'd have her back before New Years.

 

***


	4. Chapter 4

-December 23-

 

While Mel and Scott argued jokingly about where to hang the mistletoe - which he had _personally_ scaled a tree to fetch for Lydia’s party and that naturally meant he had risked his life for it - in the McCall household, Talia leaned on a wall and listened only idly. Her attention was caught by a game on her phone.

Modern technology had turned into _magic_ while Talia was stuck up in the woods with hunters. There was no other rational way to wrap her mind around something so complicated as text messages becoming commonplace over the space of only six years time. And, what was worse, was it was a rather addicting magic. It was so simple to pick up a phone, ask someone a question, and receive an answer. No dallying, no small talk, no potential for getting sidetracked and no loud noises or potential eavesdroppers. The lawyer in her _loved_ it.

She had no explanation for why the rest of her thought it was just plain fun. She sent her children text messages, and her son replied more often than her daughter, which surprised her for purely stereotypical reasons she supposed. Derek didn’t actually _talk_ much, - not like he had as a teenager, - so it almost made sense that he wouldn’t hesitate on the written option. And Cora... was still a teenager with a busy life outside of her mother’s occasional text message in it. While Melissa was suffering through a babysitter telling her not to do things that could hurt her, Talia was learning her place in the new world of technology and had gotten fairly good at it.

However, she was surprised to get a text message from one Stiles Stilinski. Talia blinked at the phone for a moment before she suspiciously accepted the message.

_Okay. I got presents for _literally_ everyone._

The message seemed random - considering the source, random is exactly what it was, because it was from _Stiles_ \- and Talia had no idea what she was supposed to do with it. Then another message popped up that explained it.

_I can’t figure out what to get for Derek._

Talia almost laughed out loud and had to take her one-sided text message conversation to another room before Mel started quizzing her on it.

Another message: _...Help?_

If she were honest, she had the exact same problem. Though that was no point in Stiles’ favor; Talia had been _dead_ to her children for six years, had come back to _adults_ with very little resemblance to the interests of their younger selves. But Stiles and Derek had apparently been friends for some six months and known each other longer than that. And there was the small detail that Stiles spent enough time around Derek in the past few weeks that there was no mistaking her son’s scent on the younger man. It was hard to hide from werewolves but the pair of them seemed to want things quiet so no one said anything. And they definitely didn’t say anything to the sheriff or Mel.

Talia chewed at her lip. She had a hard time encouraging something the boys felt the need to hide, especially from the town sheriff. But her son only had one friend who had manned up enough to ask for help figuring Derek out. Talia wasn’t about to ignore that. Her son would kill her for it, too, she realized as she started typing out her reply to Stiles, so she smiled as she sent him a riddle to puzzle out.

_You get him two._

 

***

 

The desk was cluttered with random gift-rejects. Stiles had never had so many people to have to worry about gift-giving for. Most of them were wrapped already. Lydia’s gift was easy this year: he had kept all the stuff he had bought last year and dumped it in a box in his closet and just grabbed from that for Christmas consideration. They hadn’t really had a lot of time to think about the holidays lately so Allison’s gift may or may not have come from the same pile. He would never tell anyone that Isaac’s definitely had, but it was the guy’s own fault; fashion scarves were totally unisex. Cora got a skateboard. The twins and Danny... _fruitcakes_.

Scott was a different kind of easy. He got socks, because it was sensible and annoying at the same time, and that was their thing every year.

Right now, Stiles had the same opinion of Derek’s mother as he had of Scott’s gift: Sensible and _annoying_. What kind of an answer was _that_? Buy two. _Come on_. Two of the _nothing_ he currently had was still _nothing_.

Stiles stared at the gifts scattered across his desk. He had bought them. But then he got them home and they were wrong. There was a tiny set of handcuffs that was really a keychain, a book of dating advice with the title _So You Think You’re Dating a Psycho_ , a box of sour Jelly Bellies, and the scrambled splurge on an iPod that he had already put a few hundred bucks of music and game apps on. There was a bar of pink soap that he may or may not have carved _Fight Club_ into but that was back in the box and he was totally refusing to think about giving that one to the sourwolf. He shoved them all into a box all their own to think about where they had failed him.

So far, the iPod was winning just because he had put money in it. And Derek’s mom wanted him to buy _two_? Why couldn’t she just help him out? It wasn’t like he could ask anyone else. Even Cora would roll her eyes at him for it. It occurred to Stiles then that he had a bunch of snobs for friends but the thought was abandoned pretty quickly; he had personally seen to Derek’s arrest at least three times. The guy just had the worst sense of timing when it came to the application of the Olde Werewolfe Charm.

Maybe he should get Derek two things to make up for the suckage that was the first thing.

Maybe he was supposed to get two things because... _wait_...

Stiles dove for his cell phone and typed out a reply so fast his autocorrect probably thought he was drunk.

_Wait. Did you just actually tell me something factual & important & can I use it as blackmail later?_

It took almost a minute for a response and Stiles had already chewed down a nail waiting on it. He pounced the second the screen lit up.

_I am a former lawyer with a lot of friends and very sharp teeth. You are a pup with a cell phone. Your blackmail will only get you killed._

Stiles blinked at the phone. Shit. What was it with the _Hales_ and _teeth_?

 

***

 

Air travel was, apparently, not Sherlock Holmes’ favorite method of transportation. He was crankier than usual as he and John stood at the baggage claim to wait for their luggage.

"I just got off a plane. I do not want to be driving for two hours in a car," Sherlock complained. John shrugged and nodded.

"Well, good news then: you're not driving, I am,” he said contentedly. He cast a sideways glance at Sherlock then, brow raised in mild accusation. “And I asked you very clearly if you wanted me to notch on the shuttle-service flight and you said very clearly that it wasn't worth the ridiculous amount of money for the upgrade package..."

"I've changed my mind," said Sherlock. John shook his head and his attention returned to the baggage carousel.

"Too bad,” he said. “It's too late. The shuttle only leaves at certain times... we've missed it."

Sherlock bodily turned to face him, completely alarmed and disgruntled. "What? How does this infernal airline stay in business? Damn."

John startled and frowned. He looked over at Sherlock. "How did I know something you didn't?"  
The investigator rolled his eyes.

"Firstly, you bought the tickets. My mistake was trusting you with the task," returned Sherlock, cranky enough now that Watson grinned at him. Sherlock scowled. "And second, jet lag."

"Wonderful! You can sleep in the car. It will work out then; you won't be awake to notice your annoying two hours in a car and I won't have to hear about it the whole drive." John was positively cheerful. Sherlock's scowl turned self-conscious.

"That would be a potential solution to the problem," he said. "But there is a problem with your solution."

"What is that?" John asked.

"I canceled our rental because I didn't want to witness your attempts to drive on the wrong side of the road," said the world-class investigator, chagrined. "And the rental kiosks are also now closed."

John Watson's smug smile slowly faded away.

 

***


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello all! Normally, I'm quite content to let my partner in crime handle the posting, after all she does most of the heavy lifting while I serve as beta, sounding board and tosser of bits of dialogue and random ideas at her to see what sticks. I hijacked it tonight, though, so I could let you, dear readers, in on a secret.
> 
> It's my brilliant Alpha Writer's birthday. 
> 
> Yup, like the song says, notenuffcaffeine is 'another year older and...yada yada yada." 
> 
> So, read on, and then, if you're so inclined, comment and wish her much happiness! She seriously deserves it!

 

Chapter 5

 

"Woah! Remember the rule? No calling me that when you're here," said Stiles into the cell phone. In the process of ducking into the bedroom window, Derek raised an eyebrow at him. Stiles rolled his eyes and spun sideways in his desk chair.

  
"It's my uncle. And no, I'm still not telling you what he said," the teen told him. Derek smirked and decided to shamelessly eavesdrop on the rest of the conversation. Werewolves had excellent hearing and cellphone privacy in the modern age was a laugh anyway.

  
"Yeah, sorry Uncle John. I was just talking to my-" Stiles trailed off and pulled a face, looking at Derek momentarily baffled. Derek smirked at him, daring him, and Stiles grinned back. To the phone, he said, "I'm with my friends so trying to keep track of a lot."

  
"Damn. Well, I didn't mean to interrupt anything. Sorry about that," said John. Derek was surprised to hear the British accent but he hid it so Stiles wouldn't notice the severity of his snooping. John carried on with the reason for his call.  
"We've run in to a small problem and, well... we need a ride."

  
"I thought you - no, I _know_ you rented a car because you emailed me the itinerary... what happened? Are you okay?" There was a note of panic to the question that Derek hadn't been expecting and he kicked at Stiles' shoe as a quiet way to bring him back to the normal world where not everything ended in spectacular deaths. Stiles glanced at him and kicked back but was otherwise focused on the phone.

  
"We're fine," said John, also surprised but patient with his nephew. "It's just- well, for various ridiculous reasons my partner canceled our rental literally _on the way out here_ and now it's too late to get anyone to arrange another."

  
"Wow. Okay... I think - shit, my car's in the shop-"

  
"Mom's car," said Derek. "I'll drive you out to get them."

  
Stiles looked up at him, gave a half grin before relaying the news to his uncle. "So me and Derek will  come get you."

  
"When will you get here?"

  
"The way Derek drives? Somewhere over an hour," Stiles reported.

  
"An hour is reasonable," said a new voice. "See, this is why I didn't want you to drive, John."

  
"Go find a bench to sleep on," John grouched at the person on his end of the connection. Stiles smirked over at Derek again, the relationship heard over the phone seeming strangely familiar to him.

 

 

***

 

"And I don't care what you dug up on them, Sherlock, the boy's name is Stiles. He has made that abundantly clear lately so it obviously bothers him having family who might slip up around his friends who do not know." John felt like a broken record, but Sherlock was being particularly contrary and there were some matters that needed a firmer hand. Avoiding the trauma of children who had already seen a difficult year was one such matter. John just had to see how his friend would behave. ...If they ever found his nephew. It was an embarrassingly small airport, and the text had been received announcing Stiles' arrival, so it shouldn't be this hard to track them down.

  
Communication between shorelines was reserved to emails basically since Claudia's death. The funeral was the last time John had seen young Stiles, aside from photos sent by Casey Stilinski over the years. Usually around Christmas. The sheriff was busy and rarely got Christmas cards sent out with them so he tended to send belated emails with apologies for the lack of a card. John knew the face he should be looking for, and he reasoned he should have expected the height, but he didn't. Sherlock, not surprisingly, spotted the teen first.

  
"I assume he takes after his father. Because you nor Harry are that tall and I doubt Claudia broke the trend," the grouch said.

  
John bit his cheek to keep from asking the man to go stick his head in a ceiling fan. "There are some days I wonder why I missed you," he said instead.

  
"To which I can only remind you that I warned you about jet lag," said Sherlock. The man outpaced him on their way to catch Stiles and his taller companion.

  
"Jet lag is no excuse. Be respectable, Sherlock, or I'll ask my nephew if I can drive on the wrong side of the road. At night. In a foreign country," replied John. His tone carried humor because he was smiling in case his nephew spotted him first, but a threat was still a threat. Sherlock looked at him aghast and narrow-eyed before he relented and assumed a less grouchy expression.

 

 

***

 

“Do you see him yet?” Derek asked. Stiles was agitated in the open space, searching faces, and his heart rate was up. Derek was worried the kid would panic, because the airport was the last place anybody needed to fight a panic attack. Stiles made a face.

  
“I think maybe I...” Stiles scrunched his nose and started punching at his phone screen. Derek heard a phone go off and looked over at the noise.

  
“There?” he asked. Two men were walking their way and that seemed a pretty good clue. Stiles caught on without Derek pointing and he pushed by him as he shoved the phone in a pocket. Derek blinked when he realized the cell had ended up in his jacket pocket. He shook his head and followed to keep up.

  
On the drive over, Stiles had rambled about his uncle. The email-buddy from Britain who happened to be related. When his mom was alive, Stiles had met his uncle a handful of times, when some family member or another could afford the plane ticket. Otherwise, he was another voice on the phone who Stiles' younger-self chattered at whenever his mom let him steal the phone. But it was Stiles and _family_. He hadn't seen his uncle since the funeral and Derek could tell it was messing with Stiles’ head; he had spent more time talking about his mom on the drive than he had about his uncle.

  
So it didn't really surprise Derek when Stiles caught the uncle he hadn't seen in years in a genuine-Stiles, inescapable hug, the kind he gave Scott whenever he was glad and relieved to see him alive. His uncle was surprised by what was little better than a hug-attack but returned it without Stiles noticing. The filters seemed to kick in then and Stiles pulled back, almost...bashful. Like he had just forgotten he was seventeen and not eight for a minute.

  
John seemed pleasantly surprised by the greeting, a smile on the man's face as he launched into the 'How are you's and ' _what about your father_ 's and Stiles jumped in to what he did best: talking. And forgetting manners of polite society that would have told him to _make introductions_. John gave Derek the occasional side-eye but otherwise let Stiles carry on. Which left Derek standing with his hands in his pockets, watching the evening airport crowds as a distraction from the narrow-eyed stare he was getting from John's taller traveling companion who had gone equally as unintroduced. He tried offering the man a friendly grin but he seemed suddenly surprised and interested in Derek's teeth from the intense scrutiny he briefly received, so that was a gesture Derek only tried once.

  
Instead he waited and, sure enough, Stiles and John remembered the introduction part about half way to the parking lot.

 

 

***

  
After spending quite literally the whole day asleep, (one on the couch and the other sprawled between the chairs at the desk) in the office, the Winchester brothers emerged around dinner time. Sam apologized like crazy and Dean offered to take care of dinner. Allison looked at the offer a little sideways but she allowed it. Chris sent them off to find an open restaurant to plunder and he finally took over his office again. There were some schematics he had been sent to look over and give a second opinion on, and he had promised that by Christmas Eve. Naturally, that was how Chris and a pot of coffee planned to spend the rest of the evening now just to meet the deadline. It wasn’t impossible, it just wasn’t how Chris preferred to work.

  
He had the first round of notes taken care of by the time the Winchesters returned. They surprised him by bringing in a plate of food that looked fresh from a steakhouse. Their apology for taking over his office was happily accepted. He raised an eyebrow at them when they sat down in the chairs opposite him rather than disappearing back to their own meals. Chris waited a beat and Dean got right down to business.

  
“It worked with the pie, so...” Dean assumed a smile, sarcasm overriding the professional business behavior from his brother. Then he said, “All I want for Christmas is a new glock and about ten boxes of ammo. Can you hook me up, Santa?”

  
Chris looked over at him from atop his fork of baked potato, looking like he had suddenly lost his appetite. “Only if you promise to never call me Santa again.”

  
Dean smirked at him. “Discount. Or I remember you just said that.”

  
Chris pinched the bridge of his nose before he nodded. “Yes, I have that on hand.”

  
“Awesome,” said Dean.

  
“We’ll let you eat,” added Sam. “We just wanted to check in on that.”

  
He swatted at Dean’s shoulder and they stood up, all smiles, and headed out of the office. Chris sighed and shook his head. He much preferred the days when Bobby Singer mediated between the Winchesters and Chris. He never had to wonder if Singer actually knew what he was doing.

 

 

***

 

It was late when they got back to town, and a little later than that when they got to the sheriff’s station. They had done a lot of traveling; John was a little worn and Sherlock had enjoyed just enough of a nap on the way to be cranky (That argument was briefly entertaining for everyone in the car: “I was not sleeping, John.” which left Sherlock stuck with John’s sarcastic, “No? Then you ordinarily make those noises while awake now?”) and they drove dark, empty streets to get there. Not a lot of entertainment value to be had for the effort, but John wanted to at least say hullo to his brother-in-law before taking over his house.

  
Claudia had rarely ever had anything negative to say about her husband in the time they were married. She had plenty to say about the man’s job, and she had regularly complained that they needed a new car, but the two men in her life were, according to her, everything perfect in life. Fast forwarding ten years, John saw a couple of imperfect people dealing with the negative-space his sister had left behind. Casey worked long hours, always had, it was part of the job John knew all too well. He could hardly fault him for it.

  
It left Claudia’s son alone too much and had likely contributed to at least half of the boy’s very obvious paranoia. Stiles drilled his dad about what he had eaten for dinner that night, for god’s sakes. That couldn’t be normal teenage behavior in America, could it? (A voice in his head that sounded suspiciously like Sherlock’s reminded him that it could, “ _because international statistics tell us that America is a terribly unhealthy country to dine in on the average_.” But damnit, John was a _doctor_ and he didn’t need Sherlock in his head telling him _everything_.) Given the family history, it at least reassured John that Stiles wasn’t headed down the same path as Harry; no one _that_ concerned for someone else’s health would fall in with the wrong habits of their own. In theory.

  
That meant very little toward whether or not the teen was safe from trouble. John’s American family members had both had a very hard few months according to Stiles’ emails, and the teenager had made mention of new friends lately. With the man still working at nearly midnight, there could be a connection and Casey Stilinski could just be too busy to notice. It was, however, just as likely that could be why the man was still working at nearly midnight.

  
It was also heartening to know that Casey was not still at work because of any occupational, mental or emotional similarity to Sherlock Holmes. The man that greeted them at the station’s front desk was the man John remembered, just older, more concerned, and a lot more _whole_ than the last time John had seen him. His voice, when he greeted them was genuinely warm, if tired.

  
"Hey, John. Welcome." Casey stepped around the desk and offered a hand, then mid-shake apparently decided that it was too formal a greeting for family and stepped in for a hug as well. Not as enthusiastic as his son's greeting at the airport but still familiar to an extent John was not used to and that, judging from the clearing of his throat, Sherlock was uncomfortable with.

  
Feeling just a little spiteful, given how cranky a traveling companion Sherlock made, John returned the hug, maintaining the contact a shade longer than was absolutely necessary before stepping back. He only had one brother-in-law anyway, and he never really saw the man. "Yes, well, thanks for having us out, short notice and such."

  
"We're happy to have you here. Both of you," the sheriff added when Sherlock cleared his throat again. John watched his brother-in-law turn his attention to his partner.

  
"I'm afraid I’ve got to keep the intro short for tonight. I’m stuck here for at least another couple of hours, because of some... problems that happened a week or so back. I’ve got a fed _literally _camped out in my office and I think he might be _sleeping_ there tonight. But hey, then it's Christmas and I am out of here... Sherlock, right?"__

  
Casey started to offer a hand in greeting but John and Derek both shook their heads in a hint and the sheriff awkwardly waved his way out of that one. John grinned. “The famous Sherlock Holmes,” he said in introduction. “Although I’m not sure you would have seen our exploits on this side of the pond. Small-town out there.”

  
“Sheriff Stilinski,” said Sherlock with a nod. He looked uncomfortable, worst forced-manners that John had ever seen, but he beamed gratefully at his friend for making the effort. Sherlock _suffered_ , bored, through the small talk and the warnings about the small Stilinski house and the hardly-existent guest accommodations. And John appreciated every minute of it. When the ‘fed’ Casey had made reference to showed up carrying what seemed to be his dinner, Casey seemed frustrated and torn.

  
“Back to work,” he said. “McCall’s chasing some cases he thinks might be related. To the thing last- Did Stiles tell you about that?”

  
John nodded grimly. “I got an email.”

  
“Yeah. Sorry. I’ve got a vested interest in this one not going sideways on us,” said Casey with a sad smile. He looked to his son then. “But Kyle’s agreed to no Christmas. And I’ve got swing shift tomorrow night to make sure of it.”

  
“Swing?” protested Stiles. “But the- The Martins wanted us all at that dinner party thing...”

  
“Yeah, I know. But maybe you could drag your uncle and Mr. Holmes instead. It’s something to do. And I think John can keep you from any further acts of grand theft auto.”

  
“Dad!”

  
John was almost amused by the animated horror on his nephew’s face but then the implications of what Casey said settled in. He turned to Stiles in open alarm. “Wait. Further- _You_ stole a car? Please say not the one you used to pick us up from the airport...”

  
Not far off, Sherlock paused his perusal of the badge board against the wall to look back at John. “No, of course not, John. Mr. Hale was driving that.”

  
Watson narrowed his eyes at his friend only briefly before he looked back to his guilty-as-sin nephew. “You stole a car?!”

  
Stiles shook his head adamantly. “I _borrowed_ it! It was an emergency!”

  
John looked to Casey for an explanation and Stiles crossed his arms and glared at his father. Derek Hale stood a little further away from them and seemed to be practicing innocence. It really didn’t suit him. John arched an eyebrow between the two Stilinskis. Casey nodded at his son.

  
“He stole a car,” he said. Stiles rolled his eyes and started to argue but Casey kept on. “The owner likes him and isn’t reporting it, or corroborating this story about it being an _emergency._ ”

  
John joined Casey in browbeating his nephew. Stiles flailed his arms and glared at the ceiling. Casey reached out and wrapped a hand around the back of his son’s neck, shaking enough to really make Stiles’ dramatics look pitiful.

 

“So I’m rubbing this puppy’s nose in the mess every chance I get. Feel free to join in,” Stilinski said to his brother-in-law. John nodded and crossed his arms.

  
“I think I will,” he said. Stiles pointed a finger at him in a meek effort at scolding for taking sides.

  
 _“No."_

 

***

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HAPPY BIRTHDAY, SIS!!! LOVE YA!!!


	6. Chapter 6

\- December 24 - 

After the late night getting home, Stiles was a bit blurry-headed when he woke up. He was tired but had slept in, which worried him; he wanted to see his dad at least a little bit on Christmas Eve. Then he remembered his dad had swing shift, which meant he had probably cooked breakfast and _damn_ Stiles didn't like that idea. Stiles pounded down the stairs in his sleep shirt and flannel pants to see the damage in the kitchen... and stopped short when he found a line of strangers in the front hallway.

"What-..." The question stopped because he realized he was in his pjs and being stared at by fifteen people he didn't know. Since they were all staring, looking perfectly comfortable trespassing, Stiles cleared his throat and tried to not sound like a freaked out teenager. "What are you all doing in here?"

"It was cold and the porch leaks so they let us come in here," said a woman who looked like she owned way too many cats. Stiles stared.

"Who _they_?" Stiles asked. As if on cue, his uncle sidestepped through strangers and waved Stiles down from the stairs.

"Kitchen," he said quickly. Stiles was quieter clearing the last of the stairs because he didn't want to wake his dad with any of whatever was going on. Because obviously the sheriff wasn't awake otherwise his son wouldn't have been allowed around so many strangers in sleep-clothes. Stiles threaded the crowd to John and let his uncle usher him away from people.

"What is going on?" asked Stiles in a hurried hush. John grimaced and nodded. He waved in the general direction of the living room.

"This is Sherlock," he said apologetically. "He does... _this_."

Stiles stared at his uncle, wide eyed. Strangers in the house was normal? That was so unsafe in California. For so many reasons. The least of which was that Casey Stilinski was armed ninety percent of his day. Stiles had to shake it off. "Okay... why does he do this in my dad's house?"

John scrunched his nose and scratched at the side of his head. "I interrupted his plans. He wanted to _work_ on Christmas. Apparently _another country_ notwithstanding." He waved vaguely toward the hallway. "So sorry. He should be through this crowd in about... three hours?"

"He cancels his rental car and can't get a new one, but somehow manages to get _work_ in the twelve hours he's been on American soil?" asked Stiles. "Wait, is this even legal?"

John opened his mouth to say something automatically reassuring but then he had to reconsider. "Uh... I imagine so?" he said, hoping he wasn't lying Stiles guessed from the expression on the man's face.

"Oh crap," muttered Stiles.

"Yes, it's all perfectly legal, Mr. Stilinski," called Sherlock from the living room. Stiles and John blinked at each other.

"That's my dad's name!" Stiles said, testing the investigator's hearing range.

Sherlock appeared in the doorway to the dining room, head tilted in a frustrated confusion. "Would you actually prefer Hamish? John could have been wrong... again."

"Oh my Gawd. Are you _kidding_?" Stiles stared accusingly at his uncle. John shook his head quickly.

"That's not my doing. I didn't tell him," he promised.

"It's on the internet. And I know John, so it only makes sense," said Sherlock helpfully. "All the same, you might look into getting the site to change it or withdraw your family's listing." The very British investigator looked to John. "Can we get back to work or will this take long?"

"I told you not-" John bit his tongue and held back a sigh. He looked to Stiles. "Three hours. And I promise he will _never_ mention that name again."

"I don't want to have to change schools," Stiles complained. "Don't let him start that around!"

"I know. But his name is _Sherlock_. He has a skewed perspective on the whole thing," said John with an awkward hand-wave. He shook his head. "Three hours, I promise. But... you might want to warn your father before he has a shock."

"And get dressed," added Sherlock, with a dramatic frown. "You are technically in public. I've gathered that's not your usual fashion sense."

Stiles' face suffered a violent twitch and John quickly shoved Sherlock back out through the dining room to the living room before his partner further provoked his nephew.

 

***

 

The crowd gathered in the Stilinski front hallway had indeed dwindled within three hours. But then a new crowd showed up and waited on the porch. And by then Casey was awake and feeling the Christmas spirit, so he made up hot chocolate for the poor souls seeking the expert advice of the world-class investigator from Britain. Stiles sat on the floor by the tree and watched the man work some of his cases. None of them seemed to catch the man’s interest at all; Sherlock listened to the _woe-is-me_ s and laments of missing cats and within fifteen minutes or less of the storytelling, he had each problem solved. He offered no follow-up, only his absolutely certain conjecture of what-had-happened.

"This is disappointing, John," observed Sherlock between cases. "I have a global network to draw from. My reputation is staggering. And this is the best I can get from _California_?"

"It is rather short notice," said John, rolling his eyes and shrugging his shoulders.

"Northern California," clarified Stiles helpfully. "Maybe you could have better luck waiting for word to get over to Sacramento and San Francisco? That's the best we've got up here. We have suburbs and farmers and rednecks. If you want the taxing murder mysteries you have to go a few _hours_ into southern California."

"Murder mysteries are not taxing," sniffed Sherlock. He looked at the gentleman in the North Face jacket who walked into the room then, frowned at him. Stiles fought laughter as the investigator waved the man back up from the couch seconds after he had sat down. "Your wife isn't missing, she's in Las Vegas. You forgot to put your ring back on and she forgot to tell you about her affair with your lawyer."

As the man left in a state somewhere between offended and traumatized, Sherlock looked plaintively to Stiles. "Really? I had hoped for so much better."

The teenager stared at him, jaw slack.

 

***

 

"Sorry, kid. The car stays here," said Chris. Allison looked at her father, smirking and secretly proud. They both knew what was in that car's trunk. Dean had shown it off, because it _was_ seriously impressive, and he took good care of his weapons and his car. The only problem was that Allison was very protective of her werewolves lately and she wanted them nowhere near that car. Apparently her dad didn't either because there was no reason the Winchesters couldn't drive themselves to the party if they wanted to go and pretend to be normal members of society rather than hunters, other than the werewolf-murdering-kit they kept in the trunk. All they were missing was a box of aconite bullets.

"It's going to be a big party," Allison said truthfully in the face of Dean's scowl. "There won’t be a lot of parking space. And your car kind of stands out in her neighborhood. Like, really badly."

Chris nodded. "It's safer here."

Dean actually pet the hood of his car, frowning at the logic presented to him. Allison probably could have laughed except she had seen Stiles do the same thing to the jeep a few times and it was apparently just an old-car thing. She saw Sam roll his eyes and the grin cracked.

"You're on vacation, remember?" Chris said, still trying to cajole Dean toward the waiting SUV. "Everything will be fine hidden away in the parking garage for one night unsupervised. And you won't need anything at the Martin's house because if you trash that place, I don't care who you are, you are paying for it. _Not_ me."

Dean lifted an eyebrow. "Nice place?"

Allison nodded quickly. "Huge."

Dean's brow furrowed as he debated it. Then he sighed, pet the door frame over the driver's window one more time, and reluctantly headed to the Argents' car to join Sam.

"Attaboy," teased his brother, smirking at him.

"Shut it, moocher," returned Dean. His brother didn't seem to mind the half-hearted attack and held the door open for him.

 

***

 

The SUV idea was a good one, Mel decided. She liked the big truck much better than her little beat up car. And she liked being chauffeured more than she thought she would. It was like a mini-road-trip every time she got in the car and a little less like a chore. There were a few perks to being on the injured list, despite the almost constant frustration of being told she was not allowed to do something she felt more-or-less perfectly capable of doing. Talia was a saint but there had been a few moments, despite the holiday spirit slowly sinking in past the hydrocodone, that Mel had wanted to throttle the werewolf for looking after her so diligently.

First stop on the taxi route Mel wasn’t allowed to drive any of: picking up the other invitees. Talia was escorting Stiles and his uncles, along with Mel and Derek, while the Argents were in charge of themselves and their guests. Scott and Isaac had taken the bike because Scott was working a shift at Deaton’s before the party (the poor animals at the vet’s office had to be fed and cared for, whether it was Christmas Eve or not,) and the two of them together could get it done that much faster. They stopped at the Stilinski house and parked alongside the sheriff’s car, since Stiles’ jeep was still in the shop. Mel and Talia went inside rather than wait in the car and Derek followed them in, much more reluctant because he had spent all afternoon fielding text messages about the bizarre Sherlock Holmes who had taken over Stilinski’s house. Derek said the last thing he wanted was _investigated_ again but Mel rolled her eyes at him.

“It can’t be that bad,” she told him.

“Famous last words,” taunted Derek.

Inside, the Stilinski house looked like it had been used to hold an impromptu pack meeting, with a garbage can in the front hall overflowing with paper coffee mugs and plates. Mel tilted her head at the mess.

“Casey?” she called out.

“Yeah!” he called back. “Upstairs. Talking my son into a tie...”

“Nope!” added Stiles’ voice. Talia smirked and waved Derek upstairs after them.

“Go, be an alpha,” she told him, smug. He blinked at her.

“What? I’m not wearing a tie, you won’t make me wear a tie for this,” warned Derek. “Ties are not pack territory.”

Talia arched an eyebrow at her son. “Lydia _is_ pack. It’s her party. I think at least one of you can make the effort.”

Melissa smirked at the low growl of frustration that escaped Derek as he started up the stairs, amused at how easily Talia played her son despite the missed years. She was about to suggest to Talia that they wait in the kitchen when unfamiliar, decidedly British voices caught her attention. The other woman was already moving toward the living room so Melissa was left with no choice but to follow. She wasn’t looking forward to it without Casey around. For a couple very important reasons. It was one thing to sneak-attack Stiles with the idea of his father dating again. It was another thing entirely to drop that bomb on the man’s brother-in-law. Talia, however, didn’t know the family history to know the trap they were walking in to. She followed after her friend and tried not to cringe.

“I didn’t bring a tie,” said one of the men in the living room. It was a full on report, simple fact, and it didn’t bother him at all.

“That’s fine, Sherlock. No one expects you to. It’s different for Stiles, since it’s Lydia’s party, and this is Lydia and Lydia is... well, Lydia is Lydia, alright? Trust me on this, I have received many an email about Miss Lydia. If she is that important to my nephew, he should wear the tie and then we can just get the awkward socialization over with,” said a shorter, lighter haired man. Mel thought she recognized him from years earlier, Claudia’s brother who had visited once or twice before the last time, at her funeral.

"Lydia is The Girl, you mean, in the same way that..." Whatever the taller man had been about to say died off as he turned from where he was studying a picture on the wall. The slightly bored expression on his face shifted to curiosity and he said, "Hello," to Melissa and Talia, then to his companion, "John, if we’re minding manners, it is time you put aside your blog. As your brother-in-law is upstairs, I believe the duty of host falls on you?"

John Watson looked up from his laptop - apparently it was genetic for Stiles after all - and then quickly started folding up shop to get to his feet with a surprised _Hullo_ of his own. The brief introductions were relatively painless when Mel quickly beat Talia to offering them up. John remembered Scott well enough and had no trouble placing Mel as the best-friend’s-mother, and Talia seemed to catch on about not mentioning the good sheriff’s place in the equation. It got them through to when Stilinski and Stiles stomped down the stairs, a happy middle ground having been met on the tie-thing, and a smug expression on Derek’s face for his involvement in it.

“Ready to leave then?” John asked, frowning at the results. Stiles was wearing a rather seasonally-appropriate tie... but it was not up to his father’s uniform standards, nor John’s. It wasn’t even the sheriff’s clip-on tie. Just a loose knot that made it look like he was trying for a fashion statement.

“Good to go,” said Stiles. He added in a thumbs up and fake, toothy-smile for emphasis.

Mel rolled her eyes and said nothing as the group herded toward the front door. The sheriff caught her eye and she smiled brightly at him, fishing for a compliment for her efforts toward the evening he would not be attending.

“You look lovely, Melissa,” said Casey, just on cue and just for her. He still cast a concerned look ahead of them at the back of John Watson’s head. Mel shook her head quickly, silently establishing that nothing had been said to John by her. Casey gave a relieved nod and they paused to collect his coat on the way to the door. He looked up again and saw Sherlock watching him, one eyebrow arched. The stall tactic had been noticed.

“Should we give you two a moment?” asked the investigator. John looked up, did a double-take between Sherlock and the target of his not-oblivious question. He stared at the ceiling and muttered an oath before turning to the door to let his friend embarrass him unsupervised. Mel looked down at her sling and innocently adjusted her scarves over it. She looked up again when Stilinski set a hand to the small of her back and hung at her shoulder a moment, brushing a kiss to her cheek once Sherlock had turned his back on them.

“Good luck,” he said quietly. She swatted him for it and he offered up a sheepish smile. Then, louder, he said, “Have fun at the party for me. I’m late for work.”

“It’s your own fault!” called Stiles from the SUV. Mel smirked at the scene as she locked the Stilinskis’ front door for them.

 

***

 

Stiles sat in the back of Talia’s SUV, scrunched in beside Derek. Melissa and his uncle were in the back row. Sherlock had claimed shotgun and nobody felt like arguing him for it.

"This is going to be weird," realized Stiles. He was suddenly nervous. Melissa frowned at him from the back and leaned forward. She crossed her arms on the seat between Stiles and Derek and set her chin on them.

"No, it'll be fun," she said, quietly reassuring. Stiles’ brow furrowed and he glanced back at her.

"I'm fairly certain you've _met_ Lydia's Parents. This is going to be torture," he promised. Derek scoffed and shook his head. After the month they had already had, it was a dinner party with Lydia Martin’s parents that qualified as _torture_. That figured, while simultaneously worrying Derek more than he would admit. Melissa swatted at Stiles’ shoulder.

"You camped out at the hospital for the girl,” she told him, her voice barely more than a whisper. “You helped save her from frostbite and various other scary monsters at this point-"

"Not the sacrificial deer though," said Stiles. He chewed nervously at a nail.

"-and you dragged her into all the fun of a pack.” Melissa’s tone was playful, quiet, and entirely confident that Watson and Holmes wouldn’t over-analyze her word-choice and come to anything they would believe. She patted Stiles’ shoulder. “I don't think she invited you to torture you."

Stiles nodded. "No, actually, I'm pretty sure she did."

Mel shrugged it off. "Well, at least you're not suffering alone."

"Yes, because _public_ humiliation is so much healthier for the teenaged psyche..." said Stiles. Melissa frowned at him and then looked to the back of Derek’s head until he looked back at her.

"Derek, make him stop?" Mel asked. Derek blinked at her.

"Wait. What? How?"

"I don't know. _Alpha voice_." The woman shrugged and did an impression and even John looked at her like she had pre-loaded for the party and gone a drink too close to the edge. She hadn’t, but she had taken some pain meds for her shoulder come to think of it...

Stiles leaned forward and buried his face in his hands, elbows on his knees as the car came to a stop at Lydia’s driveway.  "Ohmygod. I'm gonna die."

Derek smirked at him mercilessly. "Look at it this way," he said, "The last time she tried to kill you, you woke up again anyway. Eventually."

 

***

 

The three packs waited for the various vehicles to arrive, that way everyone arrived together and there was no awkwardness because everyone would have someone handy to save them from Lydia’s inquisitive socialite parents. Yes, they were just parents, and yes they thought they had every right to know who their daughter had suddenly started spending so much time with, and yes they were ridiculously proud of their daughter for spending time with the family of the newly-rescued former-lawyer-turned-hero Talia Hale. But even Lydia knew better than to leave any of the pack alone with her parents too long for fear of questions the answers of which she did not give prior approval. So they had agreed ahead of time that everyone would show up at exactly five-thirty and no one would ring the bell any sooner.

Once they were there, and the bell had been wrung, and the doors had been opened, Stiles and Derek stood back from the entry and stared suspiciously at the doorway of the Martin home. The Winchesters and Chris looked similarly wary.

"She planned this," realized Derek.

Stiles nodded at him. "Definitely."

"Suggestions?" asked Dean.

Derek shrugged. "Single-file."

That earned nods all around. "Sounds good," said Stiles.

Talia and Mel stopped in the middle of the sidewalk and nearly doubled over laughing as the Winchesters, Stiles and Derek very carefully staggered themselves to walk through the front door of Lydia's house. Chris was less obvious and hung around to wait for the two women trying to breathe in the cold through their amusement.

"JEEZUS, Lydia!" yelped Stiles from inside. "Did you chip down a whole tree of this shit?"

"Watch your mouth!" Mel called in to him, just to annoy him. Stiles turned in the foyer and pointed Mel's attention to the bough of mistletoe hanging in yet another archway.

"I am!"

 

***


	7. Chapter 7

"Sometimes I think I might have seen more of every other country in the world than I have this one," said Natasha, sounding surprised. She looked around at the fading sunlight beyond the forest they were driving through under the rainy clouds slowly taking over the sky.  
  
"Including the mother-land?" asked Clint, smirking.

"Yes. I hiked that a few times," Natasha replied. "And you are terrible at accents."

"Yeah, whatever. I-" Clint's half-hearted defense was interrupted by a curse and he jerked on the wheel. At the same time, Natasha pointed at something huge and impossible to miss darting into the road ahead and braced against the dash for the imminent collision. The car swerved and spun a complete one-eighty on the wet pavement, jumping to a stop when the back end hit a tree just off the edge of it. Clint and Natasha stared at the end of the headlamps, seeing a shadow of the gray blur that had caused the accident in the first place. They had spun around the object rather than hit it, doing far less damage to themselves and the vehicle than they would have otherwise.

"What. The hell. Is that." Natasha was equal parts confused and pissed off. The thing had disappeared into the trees by then and Clint sat behind the driver's wheel seriously considering chasing the thing down just to identify it.

"Did it look like a yeti to you?" he asked after a moment. "Because if it didn't, I think I need to go get a drink somewhere and sober up."

"It looked like Bruce on a bad day but a lot less green," said Natasha. "I refuse to comment on yetis."

The car was silent again. They waited but the whatever-it-was didn't come back. The world outside the stolen Audi got a little darker and things tried to realign with reality in their heads.

Finally, Clint asked, "Did we really see that? Or do we just pretend it never happened?"

Natasha cleared her throat politely. "What never happened?"

Clint accepted that answer and nodded. He put the car back in gear and pulled back out onto the road to turn around. They weren't far from Beacon Hills now.

"We'll get dinner in town. Maybe it was just a sugar crash," he reasoned.

"No, it was an Audi crash," said Natasha. "Guaranteed you busted the back end. At least a tail light."

"So not helpful, Nat."

 

***

 

“It’s a theme party,” said Lydia. “And I knew some of you wouldn’t bother.”

Stiles stared down at the giftbox in front of him on the table, then the matching boxes in front of half the other guests. He normally would have been all over the chance to flaunt dorky Christmas sweaters, but this year, he just wasn't feeling the season. He had suffered silently through two weeks of embarrassment already and having to carry on that theme in front of the entire student body of Beacon Hills High was _just_ at the line for him.

“That’s because we would like to survive our high school experience with our dignity intact,” he told Lydia bluntly.

“It’s a Christmas party,” said Lydia, perfectly reasonable. “You drink some eggnog, you sing some songs, and by the end of the evening everyone leaves-”

“With their public image permanently damaged?” asked Scott, catching on to Stiles' vibe. Lydia glared at him. Scott’s response was to hold up the bright red and green and reindeer-brown Christmas sweater that had been gifted to him.

“You gave me Rudolph. As in the red-nosed reindeer.”

“No, as in the leader of the sleigh,” said Allison, smirking at him. She was totally on board with the Christmas Sweater Party. Lydia nodded.

She waved toward where Derek sulked between Stiles and Cora.

“I couldn’t give it to him because he told me he would shred it,” she said. Stiles looked at Derek, betrayed.

“You knew about this?”

“It was on the _invitation_ ,” said Derek, one eyebrow raised. “Last I knew, you could still _read_.”

“That doesn’t mean I _did_ ,” returned Stiles. “I put Santa on the roof, I figured I knew the important stuff.”

Derek patted the sweater in front of him. “You missed the fine-print.”

Stiles glared at him like it was his fault, so Derek helpfully pulled the sweater out of the box. He frowned at it, then looked over at Lydia. “Are you kidding me?”

Their hostess shrugged innocently. “It was a late sale. I was running out of options.”

“This is not _Christmas_.” Derek held it up so that Lydia and Allison could see the sweater they had tried to inflict on Stiles. ( _Tried_ , as in, past tense and no longer allowed by the alpha.) “It’s a freakin’ unicorn.”

Scott suddenly climbed into his Rudolph sweater-vest and looked happy to do it. “Nope, I’m good.”

 

***

 

In the interests of pack-peace, Lydia scrounged up another sweater for Stiles, and he grudgingly agreed to wear it. Mel and Talia ganged up on him about it, reminding him of his boast that he liked his friends-who-weren’t-Scott and challenging him to prove it. And after that his pride wouldn’t let him _not_ wear Lydia’s stupid sweater vest. This one had a little black dog on it instead of a unicorn and that was tolerable. But he had witnessed alcoholic beverages. His father-the-sheriff was very much not-present. And he felt very much like he needed some stronger spirits if he was supposed to survive the night in a red and white patterned knit atrocity with a Scotty-dog for extra pizzaz. He went to investigate the offerings and came back frowning, empty handed. Lydia gave him a look for daring sit down at the table less than entertained.

“What?”

Stiles coughed politely, kept his voice quiet as he sat with Lydia close enough to hear him and the adults far enough away not to. “Did you know butterbeer is a real thing? Really good, really alcoholic if you make it right...”

Apparently alpha-status had unexpected perks of good hearing because Melissa stared openly at the teenager. She pointed a finger around the table and accompanied it with a cautious glare for the few she thought would let her get away with it.

“You’re not old enough. None of you are old enough. This conversation waits five years or until the rest of us leave the room.”  
Lydia’s parents stayed quiet on the matter, not about to admit to knowing about Lydia’s tendency to spike the punch at her parties. Plausible deniability was why they went on date-nights when Lydia threw parties.

“Butterbeer is from a kids’ book, Mrs. McCall,” said Lydia, placating. “It’s a kids’ drink. For _Halloween_ , not Christmas. So I don’t have any and this conversation is entirely hypothetical from start to finish.”

“I bet you I could go turn on any TV and find a _Harry Potter_ marathon right now. And then again on Christmas day,” said Stiles. “There’s too much snow, so it’s automatically a Christmas movie. Which makes butterbeer a _Christmas_ drink. _Your_ logic doesn’t work.”

“Fine, it’s a Christmas drink.”

Stiles started to stand up, glad that was settled. “Good. I’ll go make some.” He caught Melissa's glare and held up his hands innocently. “I’ll mocktail it, okay?"

Lydia gave him the side eye and then sighed. “No, you’ll screw it up. I’ll do it.”

Stiles looked in shock from Lydia to Allison. Even Lydia’s best friend looked shocked that Lydia Martin, socialite queen, would know how to make butterbeer better than their resident geek.

 

***

 

The lightbar flashing in the rear view mirrors dragged a curse from Clint. Tasha smirked at him. She was having fun after all. It just took the threat of getting busted for stealing a car to add a little excitement. He gave her a smile and rolled down his window.

"License and registration please," said the cop outside. He looked less than happy in the rain but a job was a job. Rather than try to pull rank, Clint handed over his license and the requested paperwork.

"We're just visiting..." said Clint hopefully. The sheriff nodded, waved the driver’s license he was looking over.

"So I see," he said. He shined a flashlight at the papers. The license was studied for a long moment before the set was handed over. He didn’t even look at the registration. "Well. I pulled you over for a busted tail-light."

"Yeah... We backed into a post on the way up here,” said Clint, laying on the law-abiding-citizen routine nice and thick. He looked over at Natasha, his only back-up on the lie, just to be sure she was still on board with the yeti-never-happened theory. The innocent expression on her face confirmed it and he looked back out at the sheriff. “We took the coast road and stopped in this little cove restaurant with a parking lot that wasn’t built for the rain. We just wanted to get here before I looked into getting it fixed.”

The sheriff pointed the flashlight at Clint.

"We'll call it settled then, seeing as you're my last stop and I'm due back at the station soon." said the sheriff. "Besides, I'd be killed if I kept you from your visit. You two drive safe. I'll be seeing you."

Clint squinted up at him curiously but shrugged it off as the cop headed back to his own car.

"Huh. That was easy," said Clint. He grinned, smug. "I'm _good_. Dodged a ticket and didn't even have to flirt."

"You gave him some papers, you didn't perform any porn-worthy favors," Tasha told him. Clint frowned at her, pouted as he pulled carefully and legally back out into traffic.

"I could have made this a government issue... But I got out of that one all on my own," he said. Tasha rolled her eyes at the act.

"Careful rolling that window back up, champ," she said. "Don't want you to get a cramp after all that hard work."

 

***

 

Sam and Dean made the mistake of coming back from their trip to the Adult-Beverage Cooler together, beers in hand. They had been gentlemen and brought back a drink each for Mel and Talia. Somehow, despite Sherlock's less-than-social personality, everyone at dinner seemed to be having a good time and the boys felt they could safely be gracious to their "dates" for the evening. Kindness never paid off for them historically.

As they paused in the doorway to be sure they had the right room in the unfamiliar mansion, they heard a small, polite cough and looked in at a table that was half smirks and half oblivious chatter. The red headed Party-Mistress-of-the-Yule pointed their attention to the doorway over their heads.

"Seriously?" asked Dean.

Lydia nodded, pouting just the right amount to be effective. "Tis the season of Mistletoe."

Dean turned to his brother and held up the beers he carried. "Hold these. I gotta take care of something."

Sam saw the resigned annoyance on his brother's face so he accepted the extras. He was distracted then when he got caught up, dipped back and smooched on the lips. Then Dean set him right again and reached up to remove the mistletoe from the archway. When the chore was done, he saw Sam scowling at him. He held his arms out, dismissive of the reaction amid cheering from the other men in the room.

"What? I'm on vacation. I'm _not_ pissing off any gods I don't have to for a few days."

Sam kept his brother's beer in retaliation and returned to the table to set the drinks in front of Mel and Talia. Dean huffed and went back to the kitchen to get another drink.

"Don't forget to wash your hands!" Stiles called after him. "Seriously, that stuff is deadly."

 

***


	8. Chapter 8

-December 24th still...-

Not that he was a creeper trying to get caught, but Stiles had been snagged under the mistletoe three times in a half an hour. His mistake was in looking for Derek, because the wolf was _hiding_ somewhere, and Stiles was starting to understand why as he ducked through yet another doorway without paying attention. He got snagged by a senior on the softball team who was actually as tall as him. And like Dean had said, the last thing Stiles needed to do was piss off the supernatural, so he rolled with it. That was fun. And Derek was gonna kill him. But it was fun. Hallmark probably didn't make Christmas cards that worked as _thank you_ s and eulogy requests, otherwise Stiles would have to add Lydia to the card-list. He thought he caught sight of Mel and Talia leaving and darted to the window. Sure enough, there was Derek, headed for the car with them.

He sent a text - and _then_ realized he should have just done _that_ in the first place - and cut through to the side door off the kitchen. Derek met him at the side of the house, out of sight of party guests and the exiting parents.

"Really? Running away?" asked Stiles, smirking. Derek rolled his eyes but he still watched Stiles warily.

"Really? Switched to perfume?" he asked. Stiles scrunched his nose.

"I was _attacked_ , I tell you. A mob..."

"Of three people?"

"You can tell how many? Dude. You're good." Stiles paused and then shrugged. “Actually, no you’re not. Four.”

Derek sighed. "I'm missing my ride home for this."

Stiles gave an apologetic wince. It faded into a hopeful grin and he held up a stolen bough of mistletoe over their heads.  
"I figured this was the only way I'd get what I want out of the party."

Derek kept up the scowl for a few more seconds before he cracked. "Good try."

Stiles shook his head, all business in his own way. "Totally not a line. Legit, this thing works when I want it to, or me and Lydia are gonna have words about her blatant abuse of the supernatural."

Derek challenged Stiles' smug determination on who would win a game of chicken with a bough of mistletoe. And then Stiles looked dangerously close to pouting at him and he won. Stiles got his mistletoe kiss and then a few more minutes appealing to the good works of a different god altogether before Derek had to go. Talia must have been snooping because she made Chris wait with the SUV idling on the street. The impatient hunter honked a reminder.

"Your mom has it figured out already, right?" asked Stiles as Derek looked back at the car. Derek nodded.

"Probably." He didn't mention that Cora, Scott, Isaac and Peter probably had too. He wasn't around the twins enough to worry about them.  Not that he was worried, but it would be awkward if anyone said anything to Mel or the sheriff before Stiles did. Which he hadn't. "I'm still not walking home if I don't have to."

"And not staying," observed Stiles with a reluctant pout if not a sigh.

"I can only handle so many Christmas sweaters at one time," agreed Derek. He corralled Stiles into a goodbye kiss, also sans mistletoe, and headed for the gate again. "Go wash your hands," he said, mocking from a safer distance over his shoulder. Stiles couldn’t see the smirk but he could hear it. He tossed the mistletoe after Derek. Then swore and ran to pick it up before it left berries or leaves for Prada to find on accident.

 

***

 

Chris was quick in his goodbyes to the hosts of the evening. He seemed to have passed whatever test the Martins were looking for. The dinner party was ostensibly a thank-you for saving their Lydia from the dangers of the hunter attack two weeks earlier, with the Martins either conveniently ignoring or completely oblivious to the fact that it was the pack that had put Lydia in danger in the first place. They didn’t know anything about the pack and Lydia wanted to keep it that way, but they did want to meet everyone who had, according to the reports from the sheriff, Agent McCall, and their lawyer, been under-fire with their daughter. It was a nice show of solidarity between parents, but it was a _show_. And it was nice to have their unexpected houseguests to run interference off of during dinner, as it kept the conversation mostly derailed from the ongoing investigations.

Even better, the absent sheriff was their excuse to _leave_ , given John had traveled all the way from England to socialize with his family. Lydia gave Stiles the Banshee-approved Lydia Death Glare( _TM_ ) when he had mentioned maybe skipping the party so it fell on Talia to get Stiles’ uncle to safety at the sheriff's station. Chris was leaving Allison his SUV to get their guests home; apparently Sam's Big Brother Dean had missed out on a vital part of his educational experience babysitting and wanted to see what high school socialite parties were all about.  
Mel and Talia turned their 'dates' over to Allison and Lydia and the Winchesters headed out into the slowly crowding home. Having a couple of adults at the party wasn’t a terrible idea, but it wasn’t Chris’ favorite idea, either. But there was no way Chris was staying to witness whatever teenagers did at parties.

It was a welcome surprise that the Winchesters weren’t from the same stock as Chris’ father or the architects behind Talia’s disappearance years earlier, but Chris was no less paranoid about how the evening could have gone. He just didn’t understand how he was the only one. It was annoyingly likely that Dean had caught on to the other werewolves at the party, but they weren't armed with wolfsbane so the parents weren't concerned about whatever trouble could arise. Not even Chris could figure out what the man's superpower was that he could spot a werewolf with a few minutes observation so maybe a night of being crowded by teenagers would crack the code. And as Dean had been almost violently adamant about, they _were_ on vacation. As long as the kids stayed in a crowd, they would be fine, because the Winchesters weren’t stupid.

All the same, Chris couldn’t get Talia out of that house fast enough. He had spent all evening listening to Mel and Talia both tease the Winchesters, because the women were able to handle themselves perfectly well in polite company. Lydia’s mother had approved of their choice in “arm candy” - _no, seriously, what did that even mean, considering the Winchesters were at least fifteen years younger than Talia, why wasn’t that factored into anyone’s joking commentary of the evening?_ \- and Melissa’s dry wit had the usual pack of teenagers and several new adults to banter off of. Talia had spent most of the evening smiling, seemingly surprised at herself for it, too. A dinner party populated by an equal number of hunters to werewolves usually ended in bloodshed and this one instead broke up peacefully amid _laughter_. Both women deserved a night of revelry and fun, but by the time the pies were served for dessert, Chris was one hunter weary of waiting for the bloodshed he hoped wouldn’t happen.

“Calm down, Chris,” Talia chided him quietly as she slipped into her jacket. Chris narrowed his eyes and crowded her space as he held the front door open for her.

“I’m fine,” he replied just as quietly. “But I can only handle so much socializing in one night.”

The werewolf studied him, a faint grin on her face. “Alright. If you say so.”

 

***

 

"And if we want to catch Mass at the church..." said Lydia's mother. Despite being positive the Martins hadn't stepped foot in a church in well over a year and weren't headed off to do so now, Mel nodded solemnly and assured her it was fine. The nurse could see that the alcohol conversation had made them just a little paranoid, but not enough to change their plans to leave. Mel couldn't blame them; Lydia was very accustomed to being her own boss and she made it brutally clear that her parents were cramping her style. Mel just gave the young Queen a look of her own and a quiet reminder that she wanted no teenagers in her ER that night. Lydia gave her a big-eyed, solemn nod and then turned on her heel and disappeared before she was seen talking to a nurse. Mel smirked and herded John and Sherlock out to Talia's SUV again.

On her way out, her cell rang and she dallied on the driveway to answer it.

"Perfect timing," Mel greeted. "Does this mean you're in town?"

"Of course. We just grabbed a late dinner. Is it too late?"

"Not at all. I've got a quick errand and then I'll be home. Meet you there? Or do you remember how to find it?"

"No problem. Great sense of direction. And Nat's got shotgun and a GPS, so if one fails, there's a redundant backup."

"Always a backup," said Mel.

"Girl in every port," agreed Clint, his smirk almost visible through an old-fashioned phone call.

"Good thing Beacon Hills is landlocked." Mel grinned as she heard Natasha laughing appreciatively at the wounded Clint on the other end.

"See you soon, Mr. Barton." Smiling now, Mel killed the call and walked to the SUV. She did a head-count at the door and paused.  "We're missing one," she said. Talia smirked at her from the front seat.

"Derek forgot something and will be right back out," she said, her tone its usual unreadable. Melissa climbed in and settled, shooting her friend a puzzled look. She noticed John Watson sitting behind her and looking just as curious. She tapped at Chris' shoulder.

"Get him out here," she said. "I've got company coming."

Chris nodded and pressed at the horn. It was almost a minute before Derek emerged out of the shadows beside the house, hands in his pockets and a smirk on his face. Melissa raised an eyebrow at him as he got into the truck beside her and shut the door.

"That's the most entertained you've been all night," she observed. Derek shrugged and looked out the window.

"Got caught by some mistletoe," he said. In the seat behind him, John snorted, amused. Sherlock sniffed, his eyes slightly narrowed.

"How old are you?" he asked mildly. Derek was thrown by the left-field question. He looked over his shoulder at the British investigator.

"How old are you?" he returned.

"That's irrelevant as I was asking about you," said Sherlock. "I know my own age."

Derek grinned with teeth, supposedly polite in supposedly polite company, and nodded, turned back around in the seat. "Exactly."

 

***

 

The station parking lot was crowded when Chris pulled in to the lot.

"What's this?" asked John.

"The sheriff's station," said Mel, misunderstanding his question.

"Yes, I've been here before," said John. "But it's a small posting. There shouldn't be so many cars."

Mel nodded her agreement. Curiosity got the best of the entire car and what should have been a simple drop-off turned into a group field-trip to investigate. The only one disappointed by the explanation was Sherlock; they followed the crowd to the training room and found themselves witness to the Beacon Hills city toy drive. The center attraction: one Sheriff Stilinski in a red and white fat-suit and a big fake white beard.

Three cell phones were pulled out almost instantly by Mel, Chris and Derek; two were for blackmail purposes someday in the far future and one just because its owner knew it would make the sheriff's son smile.

 

***


	9. Chapter 9

Uncomfortable and more on alert than he wanted to admit, Sam lurked at his brother's shoulder. "Just take a vacation, you said. Other hunters will handle it, you said."

Dean scowled out at the gathering of teenagers that spilled out of the living room out onto the back patio. "Shut up. How was I supposed to expect this? The Argents are freaking _outnumbered_ by werewolves. They do the eye thing and everything. Did you see that Isaac kid around Allison earlier?"

"They're just kids, too," said Sam miserably.

Dean nodded and shrugged a shoulder. "I'm only a little concerned about that in the long run. Kids can be evil, man."

The two stood at their corner of the hallway, close enough to the pie that Dean would wander in and get food and then return to his brother’s company from time to time. He shrugged at Sam.

“What? Pie.” The defense earned an eye-roll from Sam and they went back to pretending to be invisible at a party with werewolves in it.

"Dean! Sam!" Not long later, their party hostess showed up behind them, smiling brightly. "I need your _tall_ assistance. In the cellar..." Her smile twisted in annoyance. "Greenberg broke the punch bowl and I can't reach the others."

"Both of us?" asked Dean. "For a punch bowl?"

Lydia looked at him, her expression one clearly reassessing his intelligence level.

"If I change out the bowl, I need to change out the _rest of the set_ ," she told him. The socialite was dealing with a plebeian. Sam blinked at her. Dean narrowed his eyes, completely unarmed against the girl's upper-class priorities. His brother caught his shoulder and smiled.

"Sure, Lydia. Lead the way," said Sam as a distraction. The redhead's smile returned to the usual wattage and she spun happily on a heel to usher them to do her bidding.

Dean stared at his brother, slightly grumpy. "I told you. Kids are evil. Normal people wouldn't do that to people."

Sam nodded and shoved him after Lydia. They wound quickly through pockets of gossiping, laughing, or snogging teenagers in Christmas sweaters, dodging mistletoe and other deadly signs of the season. Through the kitchen and out a door into a dark room, with Lydia ahead of them promising, "Just a second, I'll get the light."

"Saw this in a movie once," observed Dean, wary. He frowned. "Actually a couple of them. Not sure she's old enough for either endgame."

"Oh my god, stop, okay?" whispered Sam. "The last thing we need is you getting arrested as a pedophile."

That startled Dean and he gaped at Sam, offended. "You are one sick puppy," he said. Then he marched after Lydia just to make an example. Sam shook his head and trailed behind. The lights were on and the door closed behind them, Lydia standing in front of it and looking bored. Dean aimed his brother a flat glare, annoyed.

"Told you I'd seen this movie," he said. Sam raised an eyebrow as he looked around at a neat and tidy garage that was clearly not a wine cellar. He looked to Lydia, intending to try diplomacy first since he was dealing with a teenager, after all, and then suddenly his brother disappeared from where he had stood beside him. A flailing boot caught Sam in the shin and he dodged away. He looked back to see Dean pinned on his back in the middle of the room, Allison Argent with a knee on his shoulder and a sharp knife at his throat.

"Are you kidding?" blurted Sam. "Allison! what's-"

She looked over at him, calm but just as capable as her father at leveling an opponent with a no-bullshit glare. "This is a friendly reminder that you're guests here-"

" _Knife_ , not friendly," interrupted Dean, unamused. Allison arched an eyebrow as she looked back down at him.

"This is friendly. You don't want to know where it goes when it's feeling anti-social," she replied. Dean blinked at her then held up a hand just enough to wave an "ok" sign.

"Friendly. Got it," he said. Allison looked to Sam for further interruption and he shook his head. He was just fine with watching his brother get his ass handed to him by a little girl. He had to work too hard not to smile as it was. Allison got back to business.

"Yes, there are wolves in Beacon Hills. Not just Talia. They're mine. We have an alliance and you know the Argents have always lived by the code that we hunt those that hunt us. The wolves don't hunt us, or in our territory, and we don't hunt them," she told her fellow hunters. "And it works and we like it and you will Not interrupt it while you're here. Is that clear?"  
Dean and Sam both stared. Then they nodded.

"Not a problem," said Sam.

"At all," agreed Dean. Allison looked between them and then back to Lydia, the most popular party hostess in town calmly watching her best friend commit a dangerous assault in her garage. She shrugged. Then Allison shifted away from Dean and dropped her knife back into the sheathe hidden in her boot. She offered the hunter a hand up.

"Good. These people are my friends. I will make sure they are safe," she said evenly. At the door, Lydia made the executive decision that her job there was done and she looked back at them.

"Glad that's settled," she said. "Can we go back to the party now? _My_ party, which I am currently _not_ present for..."

The other three stared at her. Allison smirked.

 

****

 

There was a very expensive sports car parked in Melissa's driveway when Talia's new-to-her SUV pulled up. Chris openly stared, suspicious. Talia let out an appreciative whistle.

"Someone has good taste," she said.

"And a nicer bank account," observed Derek.

"The punk did well for himself. Damn," said Melissa. She was smiling anyway. She started fighting with the door lock and Talia grinned back at her as Chris got out of the truck.

"Child locks," Talia said, completely unapologetic for the trick. Melissa glared at Chris as he let her out. He smiled back, the dangerous one, with teeth.

"Be nice," she warned him.

"I'm always nice," Chris replied. In the truck, Derek scoffed and Chris shut the door on him for Talia to let him out. She did and only smirked at her son's offended pride; he would get over it.

As Melissa climbed out of the SUV, the occupants of the Audi opened their own doors. A man about Chris' height greeted Mel at the back of the Audi and looked about to give her a full bear-hug until he saw the sling on her arm.

"What the- are you okay?"

Well, that was certainly not the expected greeting between old flames, even though it probably should have been predicted. Mel had cleaned up better than Stiles and Chris for the evening - the both of them still sporting healing cuts from their fights the week before - but even artfully hidden by a shawl and colored scarves, the sling stood out. The look on her visitor's face said she was about to be babied and treated like glass by yet another adult who should know better, and the look on Mel's face said she was not above kicking his ass in her driveway in front of witnesses to prove she wasn't _that_ breakable.

"Clint, I already have two babysitters and at least one guard dog, not counting Scott, so if you try-"

"Okay! Got the memo. But you are telling me what this is about," said Clint. He went back to his planned objective and folded Mel into a hug. Talia grinned as Chris and Derek both gave the stranger a suspicious sidelong glance. Talia noticed Clint's companion standing nearby, looking less than entertained by the two friends.

"Okay, that's enough," announced Talia mildly. "I don't want to have to call Santa out here to break it up."

Mel actually giggled and at Clint's confused expression, she told him, "My gentleman-friend is currently playing Santa to a room full of kids back at the sheriff's station."

Talia noticed Clint's companion visibly relaxed. Clint raised an eyebrow.

"Sheriff station?"

"He's the county sheriff," reported Mel. "I have a _type_ , apparently."

"Then Clint might have used you to get out of a ticket earlier tonight," offered the redhead with Clint. At Melissa's arched eyebrow, Clint told an abbreviated story about his personal skills at ticket-dodging the sheriff of Beacon Hills. Introductions followed quickly then (to keep Mel from laughing at him) and Natasha Romanov made sure to clarify, "I work with Clint," just to remove herself from the group a little. Derek actually laughed, quiet enough but apparently familiar with the lie, given that the two work partners' scent told a very different story. Talia cut her son a disapproving glare to remind him of his manners and Derek went back to his usual bored.

Clint and Natasha collected their things from the trunk, explaining how Clint had accidentally-with-air-quotes backed the Audi into a light post. When Mel tried to press for more details, Natasha calmly and very honestly informed her that was "Classified."

As they followed Mel into the house, Derek caught Talia by the elbow and held her back. He nodded toward the two visitors.

"Do they look familiar to you?" he asked, his expression showing confusion that was almost comical. Talia considered it and then nodded.

"Yeah, a little. But I've never met them before," she replied. Derek frowned.

"I know I've seen them before," he complained, his confusion turning suspicious on principle. "I just can't place them."

"They're Mel's guests and her friends," Talia reminded him. "Chris is in guard-dog mode so I think we'll be here awhile. If you can't be social, go watch a movie and forget about it."

Derek pulled a face at his mother and seemed to give real consideration to her suggestion of watching a movie.

 

***

 

The party was going well, everyone crowded indoors from the rain and a veritable sea of red, white and gold cable knit and unfortunate cross stitch. Lydia was perfectly happy with the outcome, gloating at the participation. Allison had a vest on over her dress, accidentally matching both Isaac and Scott. The way her friend the party planner eyed them occasionally, though, Allison wasn't so sure Lydia hadn't planned the matching. It was almost a pack effort, but Cora had a cardigan instead, not really into the theme idea enough to advertise. She disappeared out on to the back porch after awhile; crowds weren't her thing either.

Supposedly Scott and Cora had gone out a few times but Allison didn't see that happening. Nothing about Cora made sense to what Allison knew of Scott, but that was his business. It wasn't like Isaac exactly made sense either, but Allison was perfectly happy with him at the moment. And maybe Lydia had it right. She was just starting out and had lots of time to screw things up, things didn't have to make sense in some long term promise of forever. Like she had with Scott. Allison was in charge of herself.

And the mistletoe idea was actually a lot of fun when she didn't worry about offending anyone. She and Isaac had a deal; she wouldn't get out the knives if he didn't get out the claws and everyone could enjoy the party. Free love, as long as they held the definition of _love_ rather loosely.

Allison watched as Scott navigated a mistletoe doorway unsuccessfully and got caught by a nerdy girl from English class. She giggled as Scott turned into the polite gentleman and bestowed a kiss on the cheek... And then _ran away_. Packs had grouped around the archways of Lydia's house, giggling teens pouncing or arranging to be pounced under the bright boughs of pristine mistletoe, every attack tactically and strategically fabricated as _accidental_.

Things were going well. And then something strange happened. Something very, very strange. Allison heard a caterwauling in the foyer and the voice sounded almost familiar even though it was the worst singing she had ever heard. It was hard to call it singing. It was more like _screaming_. And it sounded like _Scott_.

Allison pushed herself to the front of the crowd, alongside Lydia, where she saw a panicked Scott _acting_ completely drunk out of his mind. Stiles was already there trying to talk Scott out of the embarrassing display but it didn't seem to be working.

"What is he doing!" yelped Lydia.

"I don't know!" returned Stiles.

Lydia glared at him. "Well! _Fix it!_ "

Stiles' version of a plan wasn't one Lydia approved of. He started singing along just as badly, and he got others to join in. Shortly, the foyer echoed with the worst rendition of _Feliz Navidad_ that anyone had ever heard. It at least made it less like an impromptu stage performance with Scott as the star and more like a Christmas-Sweater-flashmob. Lydia slowly recovered and played it off and her social status remained untarnished. Scott's would never recover.  
  
In amongst the noise, Stiles managed to sneak Scott out the front door, and, Allison noticed, the Winchester brothers followed them. There was no way for her to cut through the singing crowd - now someone had started in on the _Twelve Days of Christmas_ and _oh god no one could sing_ \- so she had to help Lydia cheer-lead the cheesy theme-appropriate party game.  
  
"I am never letting Scott come to my parties again!" Lydia hissed through a smile. Allison frowned and nodded; something was weird but she couldn't tell _what_ so she had no way to argue Lydia's executive decision.

  
***

Stiles’ first brilliant idea toward stopping Scott’s terrible Christmas carolling was to tackle him on the grass. The hiccup-theory as applied to werewolves: startle them hard enough and they would stop acting like idiots. He succeeded in soaking their Christmas sweaters in half-frozen rain water and grass stains. And Scott looked at him in a panic.  
  
 _Okay, next idea_...  
  
With a couple of hunters trying to pull apart what looked to them like a kid picking a fight with a werewolf, Stiles didn’t have many options. He bit Scott’s arm as hard as he could, and that was helped along by Dean Winchester grabbing Stiles around the shoulders and dragging him back. It was enough to trigger the healing trick and, as Sam pulled Scott one way and Dean dragged Stiles the other, Scott finally shut up. The Winchesters stared between them in a split second of shock before Dean was shoving a flask in Stiles’ hand. Stiles could have cheered at the brilliance and was immediately rinsing his mouth out with alcohol... and then choking on it because it burned more than the spiked punch and eggnog of Lydia’s party.  
  
It occurred as an afterthought that he had just left Scott with a hunter and Stiles scrambled to his feet to get the Winchesters to back off. Sam held up his hands, still crouched where he was helping Scott get his bearings back.  
  
“We already got the lecture, man,” said Dean groughly.  
  
“We’re on vacation,” added Sam. Stiles looked between them, seemed to accept it. He gave the flask back to Dean before moving to help Scott up to his feet.  
  
“What the hell happened, buddy?” he asked. Scott shook his head.  
  
“I seriously couldn’t shut up, man,” said Scott. He sounded a little rough for a minute there but then his voice came back. “I didn’t drink anything, and Lydia didn’t spike it with anything I can’t handle even if I had.”  
  
“Did you mess with any of the mistletoe again or anything? Maybe it was from that...” Stiles’ voice trailed off as Scott shook his head.  
  
“There’s a party going, I wasn’t messing with that stuff. Are you kidding? That crowd would kill me if I did anything other than hang more of the stuff. And trust me, we used it all,” said Scott.  
  
“So, what, then like a jinx?” asked Stiles. It surprised him and Scott both when he was echoed perfectly by Sam. Scott looked at them sideways but tried to deal with Stiles mostly. He shrugged.  
  
“I guess, maybe? But a jinx doesn’t make sense, does it?” he asked. “You triggered the healing and it stopped. A jinx...”  
  
“Wouldn’t do that,” concluded Stiles, mentally kicking himself. “Right. So something you ate or breathed in or something. Puts me right back at the mistletoe though.”  
  
“I didn’t mess with the mistletoe,” repeated Scott, stubborn.  
  
Suddenly the lights went out in the house and outside of it, lighting up instead with screams from suddenly panicked teenagers. Scott pulled Stiles out of the way and waved the Winchesters back as the front door opened. A flood of freaked out teenagers ran screaming from the house.  
  
“Okay,” Stiles announced over the sound of the stampede. “Something is officially going wrong here.”

  
***


	10. Chapter 10

-Late December 24th...-

"Okay. That's weird," announced Mel.

"What?" asked Talia. Considering Mel had gone back into the kitchen, Talia deemed it a bad combination when her non-wolf, injured alpha had a habit of using her arm when left unsupervised. She left the dining room table and Mel's guests and went to check. Mel stood staring at the counter.

"There is sugar all over the counter. But look..." Mel pointed to the sugar jar, closed and full and sitting on a different counter all together next to Mel's mug of tea.

"Are you sure it's sugar?" asked Talia, investigating the jar before reaching for a paper towel.

"Well I'm ninety-nine percent certain it isn't cocaine, so I'm going with the sugar theory," said Mel. She shoved at the white grains with her finger and nodded.

" _Sugar_ , sugar. So how'd it get here? The boys haven't been home all night."

"Isaac and Scott wouldn't do that," agreed Talia. "It looks like something’s written in it."

Mel tilted her head and changed her angle on the view, trying to sort it out. She shoved a few lines into a clearer order, better defining what was obviously a letter. Mel squinted at it. "That's not English."

Talia nodded. "Not French or Latin, either."

"German?" asked Mel. Talia shook her head.

"Doesn't look like it."

"Don't touch," said Mel, pointing to the mess. Talia nodded and started fumbling with her phone. A moment later she had taken a picture of it and was sorting out how to email it to Casey, just for the extra timestamp. The lawyer in her was waking up more and more lately and she was tiptoeing through a crime scene because of it. Cell phones were useful for documenting things.

"It's Gaelic," said Chris. He was just walking into the room and could already see the word on the counter. Behind him, Natasha and Clint and Mel trailed into the kitchen.

"What's it say?" asked Talia. Chris shook his head.

"Mine." Natasha's answer wasn't expected. Everyone looked at her. She pointed to the mess of sugar. "That's what it says: mine."

"Okay... That's disturbing," said Mel. "No one has been home."

"No one knows Gael," added Chris. He hesitated. "Talia? Where's your brother?"

The woman shook her head, dismissing the implication.

"I sent him camping," she said. "He was getting obnoxious. The last two weeks were too much for him and he needed to step back."

The answer didn't settle the suspicious expression on Chris' face. "So this could be him and he snapped."

Talia waved to the mess on the counter. "Are you kidding? You know better than I do my brother isn't this _subtle_. And Cora has been checking on him since I’ve been here."

The answer was grudgingly accepted but Chris didn't look any more at ease by the assurance that it wasn't Peter.

"Mel... What's been going on out here?" asked Clint, concerned. Chris looked to Talia with a similar expression on his face. Then he reached to the holster at the back of his belt under his jacket. He looked to Clint.

"We check the house," he said. Clint nodded and Natasha agreed, taking up a post near Talia and Melissa.

"I'm sure it's just a prank," said Mel cautiously. Natasha shrugged and nodded toward the sugar.

"Prank or not, you would have noticed that when you came in to start the drinks," she observed. "So this is new in the last twenty minutes."

There was a moment of silence as the women let that sink in. Talia took a breath and shook her head. "I'm going to clean that up."  
Maybe there would be another message left if they cleared the countertop someone had used as a chalkboard.

 

***

 

The sheriff’s office was crowded at the front, the lobby and press room overflowing and the front entrance cluttered with food tables and Christmas decoration. As soon as Stilinski had a chance to sneak away, he was leading John and Sherlock through the fundraising crowd toward the safer zone of the bullpen and his office.

“I haven’t actually done this gig before, so I’m only guessing here, but I think we’ve got about another hour before I can leave,” he said, apologetic. “That wasn’t the plan.”

“I don’t mind,” said John, amused. He looked around to see Sherlock helping himself to a stack of files on the other desk in the room. “Oh come on-”

“What are these?” Sherlock asked, flipping one of the files open. Stilinski stared at him, jaw slack.

“Technically confidential,” said Casey. He looked rather ridiculous, a santa with no beard politely pulling a file from Sherlock’s hands with complete disregard for the fact that he was in a _santa_ suit and not a uniform. John crossed his arms and hid a grin behind his hand, the absolute innocent in the equation.

Sherlock frowned between John and Casey. "Your son's name-"

"Yes, he's all through it," interrupted Casey. "But it's an active case. So I can't talk about it and you can't go opening files like that-"

"It's a bad habit he's never bothered to break," said John Watson, half apologetic and equal parts amused and tattling. "I'll try to keep him honest."

Casey still removed the files from temptation, locking them in a drawer. He shook his head. "No offense but not enough. Kyle is doing me an _actual_ favor letting me stay involved in this. I can't let you poke through it without his go-ahead and there is no way we're asking tonight."

"The Santa suit won't sell it," said John.

"Exactly," agreed Casey. He frowned and shrugged. "You might be able to get Stiles to tell you about it, but..."

"No, it's the holidays," said Sherlock. John looked at him, mildly surprised that the terminal investigator was backing off so easily. That usually meant there was a Plan B somewhere and John raised an eyebrow at him. Sherlock shook his head. "I won't cause trouble, Sheriff."

Casey nodded, smiled tiredly. "Thanks."

"Santa will be missed at his duties," Sherlock reminded him.

"Right," said Casey. "Just... Feel free to come and go. There's food in the other room if you can brave the crowd again. And again, I'm sorry about this..."

John waved it off as Sherlock helped himself to the sheriff's desk chair, testing it out without any apparent concern for having nothing to do other than be social for an hour.

 

***

 

The whole group, Derek included, stood in the upstairs hallway in front of Scott's open bedroom door. Another message was scattered on the floor in notebook papers and shredded books, again in Gaelic, and this time apparently saying simply "Thief."

They weren't sure what to do with this message, and Clint had gone well past his point of patience with being in the dark about what had gone on in Beacon Hills recently. He was asking questions out of concern for what Mel had been dragged in to, and it wasn't like Talia hadn't already been through the interrogations of well-meaning strangers. Human curiosity. But there was only so much a werewolf could share so Talia had resigned herself to the imaginations of people who knew nothing about hunters. She and Melissa tag teamed on telling Clint and Natasha about the hunters (dubbing them “rednecks from _Deliverance_ ” for the sake of simplicity) they had so recently pissed off, and why Chris was so worried about the messages that had been left in the McCall house.

"I'm helping the case how I can. So I could be a target. _Or_ maybe Melissa, or Stiles, or Derek. Eventually someone will have to testify. Probably me. And I know the system. So it's going to be iffy, how it all pans out."

"Because you're not broken," said Natasha, frowning as she understood. Talia saw the subtle change in the woman's expression and was surprised to realize Natasha suddenly had an interest in the people Clint had so obviously dragged her out to meet. The woman found something she could understand. Natasha looked up at Talia. "A judge and jury won't get that. But anyone who has seen war can tell you not everyone breaks. That's why we train, why we fight.

"I _was_ a lawyer and I ended up in a situation just like the clients I tried to help. I don't look the part of the wounded woman," said Talia, her expression mild but frustrated. "So they're looking for ways to get around building the case on what happened to me. It's up in the air, but it's federal. It will be tied up a very long while. No one should be coming after us any time soon for what Mel and the others did to help me."

"It's not off the table though," said Clint. He waved toward the piles of books and homework papers that had been shredded and scrambled around the room.

"It's not a foregone conclusion, either. We're safe here," said Talia. She glanced over at where Chris was leaned against the wall, staring at the mess in the room. He looked up at her and tried to return the confidence. Derek scowled and stepped between them to start cleaning up Scott's room. Across the hall, Natasha noticed the interplay and looked to Clint. She took an exaggerated breath and shook her head.

"I thought you said Christmas was a feel-good holiday, Clint. So far, things are damn depressing about it," she said, trying to get him off the track. "The house is cleared. We've got no sign of how anyone got in or where they went..."

"Bedroom window is easy access," said Clint. "It's closed now, but-"

"It's locked, I checked," said Chris.

"Good, then no one's getting in," said Mel. "So for now, we'll call it a random prank and let it go."

That got her glared at by Chris and Clint. Talia and Derek weren't surprised, and Natasha raised an eyebrow at Mel's call.

"I mean it. It's Christmas. If the Ghost of Christmas Past shows up tonight accusing me of stealing things, then fine, mea culpa. But this? It's sugar and Scott's school notes - which, okay, I'm a little pissed off about the school stuff,- but nothing irreplaceable."

"Well, we have pie and cookies," offered Talia. "Is that a sufficient distraction?"

"Always," declared Mel.

"You should look around before we give up on this thing," said Clint, not at all sold. Chris nodded his agreement.

"At least to see if anything's missing," he added. Mel sighed and nodded, reluctant. Not done with his security-guru schtick, Chris still watched the human alpha.

“And I suggest we let Casey know about it,” he said. “And by suggest I mean, _do it now_.”

Mel frowned at him. She crossed her arms, the annoyed look not properly conveyed due to the limitations of the sling, and huffed her bangs out of her face.

"But then pie and cookies," she said.

It was another ten minutes before Melissa declared everything accounted for and tried to switch gears to some Christmas cheer. It wasn't until Scott came home about forty minutes later, sulking, that they discovered anything was missing.

"Mom!" Scott yelled, obviously annoyed about something. "What'd you do with the mistletoe? I wanted it _there_..."

The confusion over the mistletoe didn't last long, Scott, Isaac and Cora too quickly derailed into the topic of the disaster that was Lydia's party. Talia caught Derek fidgeting and nodded.

"Why don't you go see what Stiles has to say about it all?" she suggested. It was as though she had spoken to her son's shadow. Derek was moving to leave before the last word was out of her mouth. Things were getting a little too weird to just ignore.

 

***

 

"The Hales were supposed to have died."

After the peaceful, socially entertaining Sherlock that had survived the children and noise of the sheriff’s station, and then the ride away from it with the man in the red santa suit behind the wheel, the dark announcement confused Watson and he blinked at his friend. "Excuse me?"

“There’s your Christmas story for the day.” Sherlock sat beside John on the other end of the couch, a laptop on his lap and his loafers kicked up on the coffee table. Somehow he had missed the memo that they weren't at home. John reminded himself that teenagers lived there and the table had seen worse. Sherlock helpfully repeated himself and it still didn’t make sense, which only made the man sigh in annoyance.

“Talia Hale is recently returned from the dead as well. An actual deadly fire six years ago. There was, apparently, much drama involved in her resurrection. Your nephew was involved. There was gunfire. Knifeplay. People died. The sheriff was very nearly put on leave for the shooting because it’s the second incident he’s been involved in within the space of a month. Did you know your brother-in-law and nephew have both been kidnapped since Halloween?”

John blinked at Sherlock’s ramble. “I knew some of it. That’s why I asked you to make an effort at being not-yourself for Christmas.”

“It’s your own fault for bringing me along,” Sherlock warned. He pushed the laptop onto the table and stood as though to leave.

“What’s my fault? How does this-” John narrowed his eyes, frustrated and wondering what his friend was on about now.

“Stiles’ injuries. You told me not to ask or upset the boy, so, after seeing the files in Stilinski's office, I researched. It’s all right there in the press. Court papers have been filed and published. Ugly mess, really. And then tonight at the Martin’s party-”

“Yes, but it’s practically a closed case, Sherlock,” said John quickly. “There’s no case here for you to work.”

“No case? Hardly,” scoffed Sherlock. “The lovely Ms. Hale was imprisoned for six years in Nevada, John. That’s a terrible thing, even I know that about this country. And for trying to help her, your nephew faces-”

“Do _not_ start prying-”

“I’ll not pry. There’s plenty in front of me that I can get to without _prying_.”

“Oh, I doubt that, Sherlock. I know you quite well and three years haven't changed-”

“It’s your family and I am concerned, John.” The calm announcement surprised him and John’s protests clicked shut behind a closed mouth.

“Oh.” He tilted his head, still not sure what to do with something that, really, he never would have expected from a man who had so carefully trained emotional decisions from his repertoire. “Really?”

Sherlock rolled his eyes, and it was actually possible that John had offended him. It disappeared too quickly for John to ease it out though.

“And it bears mentioning that there is a significant age difference. And considering he’s your nephew, you should do something about that-”

“Wait, what?” John was surprising even himself as he kept up with Sherlock’s topic changes. “Excuse me? You’re handing out dating advice now?”

Sherlock looked up suddenly. John turned around to see Derek Hale leaning in the doorway, silently watching them from behind crossed arms. The man seemed thankfully slow to anger and just stared in at them. John realized why as his nephew backstepped from where he had paused behind the wall to hear Sherlock’s question. Stiles looked somewhere between annoyed and embarrassed.

“No, it’s not actually dating. Dating requires, or at least _implies_ , going out and doing something like a _date_ ,” said Stiles patiently. He waved a hand between him and Derek. “We go out anywhere lately and end up narrowly avoiding certain death. Not _actually_ the same thing.”

John stared at his nephew, surprised someone was tolerating Sherlock’s nosey prying and his own unwitting participation in it. Sherlock hummed in that suspicious way of his. John’s eyes narrowed as he turned back to his friend, a hand lifted to point at him warningly.

“Sherlock-”

“Mr. Hale? Were you seeing Stiles before or after the misadventure in Lake Tahoe?”

“Ohmy God, Sherlock.” John was standing now and looked back to Derek apologetically. “You don’t have to listen to him. He needs _medicated_.”

Derek acknowledged the concern but shrugged it off to deal with Sherlock. “What does that have to do with anything?”

Sherlock blinked at him. “Only everything. A simple yes or no will answer the question.”

Stiles looked to his uncle. “He’s not going to give this up, is he?”

John pulled a face and winced back a breath. “In a word? No.”

“Oh god.” Stiles stared up at the ceiling and scrubbed a hand through his hair. Derek looked from Sherlock to Stiles, silently assessing. He turned his attention back to Sherlock.

“Yes,” Derek reported in answer to Sherlock’s question. The investigator didn’t seem surprised and just nodded in his way that said wheels were turning faster than John had a prayer at keeping up with. John and Sherlock might as well have not been in the room though as Stiles seemed to freeze up and stared at Derek. It seemed a surprisingly significant answer and John shuffled awkwardly and glared a little at the oblivious Sherlock pacing in front of the fireplace.

“Your father had to beg permission so who is handling the investigations into the events surrounding Ms. Hale’s reappearance?” Sherlock asked suddenly. It caught Stiles’ bewildered attention away from Derek and it took him a moment to catch up.

“Uh... Scott’s federal-ass of a father?” said Stiles. He blinked and shook his head. “Kyle McCall. He’s working with Dad on stuff...”

“I would like to volunteer my services,” said Sherlock. “We’re here for two weeks. That should be ample time."

John Watson’s jaw dropped. “ _Volunteer_?” he echoed.

“For what?” Derek asked. Sherlock tilted his head toward Stiles.

“Keeping John’s nephew out of jail. There were two bodies at the crime scene. One out of doors, one not.  For various reasons applicable to that scenario, kidnappers don’t generally kill their own _before_ the exchange has taken place.”

A wide-eyed Stiles stared from John to Sherlock. “Oh shit.”

The British investigator scrunched his nose and nodded. “And really, the two of you are too obvious to keep this hidden from your father much longer. John, advise them to tell Casey.”

Watson hung his head, shoulders slumped. “Good god.”

 

***

 

 

 


	11. Chapter 11

-December 25th-

While Stiles and Derek raided the kitchen for midnight snacks to counter the alcohol Stiles had snuck in at the party, John had chased Sherlock off to what was their room for the next two weeks - Stiles’ room with an extra air mattress - and left the downstairs floor in a state of temporary peace. The sheriff had crashed before he had gotten home, and Stiles was not looking forward to settling in to sleep on the couch, so he stalled. Anyway, Derek was there to get filled in on the problems at the party and Stiles was Derek’s go-to for all things info.

"...So now Isaac's babysitting Scott and all we can do is... I dunno, bite him again I guess if he starts _caroling_ in the middle of the night." Stiles shrugged as he finished off the tale and a PopTart.

"I should have stayed at the party," said Derek, scowling at the floor.

"Nah, man. We handled it,” said Stiles. He paused and perked up, his grin boasting. “Well, I did. I kicked ass. And the party got called off when the power died anyway."

Derek looked up so fast he should have had whiplash. "The power- what?"

"Yeah. Out. Pop-fizzle- _blackness_. And then a lot of screaming..." Stiles frowned as he wondered what teenagers had against being out at night in the dark.  Especially in strange mansion homes on the edge of the woods...

The quandary of the power outage really bothered Derek and he shook his head. "But why? No wind..."

Stiles gave a shrug. "Not sure."

That wasn’t enough of an answer and Derek stood up from his lean against the kitchen counter, lightly tugged at Stiles’ elbow. "Come on."

It was an automatic when Stiles started to follow after him but he stopped when logic kicked in. "What- dude. Middle of the night. No car."

Derek shrugged and smirked over at him. "So we steal one."

"Are you kidding- not funny. You are so not allowed to take sides on that..." Stiles pointed an accusing finger at the werewolf who had unknowingly been the cause of Stiles’ downfall into the glamorously dangerous world of car theft. Derek shrugged again. He stared out the kitchen window and had his thinking-face on, the one he wore when he didn’t like what he was thinking about. And standing in the middle of the kitchen after discussing the supernatural attack on Lydia’s party was probably the worst possible time for Stiles’ hyperactive mind to start feeding him all the wonderfully dirty ideas on how to make Derek _stop with the serious pouty face already_...

"Call the Winchesters."

Those three words were no where near the vocabulary in Stiles’ imagination and it took half a minute for him to catch up to what Derek had actually said. He blinked at him and gaped like a fish for longer than was probably reasonable.

"...no, seriously, are you drunk?" he blurted.

Derek stared back at him. The damn werewolf could _read things_ and smirked at Stiles, which got him justly glared at in return. But, hey, the pouty face was gone... that was totally not fair.

Stiles scowled at him, annoyed at being caught-out as much as at Derek’s stupid idea. "Why would I know how to call the-"

Derek rolled his eyes. "I know you got their numbers, Stiles. I know how you work."

"Lie." Stiles crossed his arms. Derek held out a hand expectantly, bushy eyebrows half-way up his forehead to complete the challenge with a gloating look.

"Give me your phone then."

Stiles held out as long as he could - which wasn’t freaking long, thanks to his imagination attacking him in the freaking kitchen of all goddamn places...- and then pulled out his cell phone.

"...goddamnit Derek. Suicidal freaking wolves...." His muttering continued - as did Derek’s gloating - as Stiles punched out a text message to the number the Winchesters had given him just a little over an hour earlier.

 

***

 

“No. Are you kidding? That’s not part of the deal. Vacation. I don’t care about weird parties. _Vacation_ , Sammy,” said Dean. He scowled at his brother from the comfort of the Argents’ living room couch; this couch had more padding than the furniture in the office, and the blanket didn’t slide off the leather. He was not going out into the cold to deal with supernatural crap that wasn’t his fault or his concern, either one, when he had a perfectly comfortable couch. Sam stared at him blankly.

“Of course I’m kidding, Dean. In what _universe_ would I possibly suggest we go play taxi for a _werewolf_ and a kid to go investigate the scene of a supernaturally invaded Christmas party at some rich kid’s house?” he asked, perfectly flat. Dean’s nose twitched and he scoffed, tugged on his blanket. Sam still stared at him, which meant nothing good.

“ _This_ one,” said Sam. He reached out and tugged his brother’s blanket away. “This universe. This is what we do. The kid asked for help, so we’re doing it.”

“Oh come on! What happened the last time one of these kids asked for _help_?” Dean tossed in the air-quotes despite the risk of losing his blanket for good.

“Allison kicked your ass and I will forever cherish the memory,” replied Sam. “So you can man-up and play taxi for a werewolf, earn back some street cred after getting _flattened_ by a teenager 120 pounds soaking wet, or I take the car and I-”

By then Dean was standing and glaring. Sam stopped talking when his older brother started marching toward the hall, fully annoyed but cooperative.

“You suck,” was muttered at least once before Dean reached the front door.

Sam smirked and followed after him.

 

***

 

Rather than risk disturbing their house guests, Stiles and Derek waited for their ride on the porch, in the dark. And it was cold. And Derek was warm, so Stiles invited himself into his space. And Derek totally owed him for the pouty-face in the kitchen, anyway. Derek wrapped him in a hug and rested his chin on Stiles' shoulder.

Stiles frowned suddenly, shifted enough to lift his head to look over at Derek without making the man move. "What do we do about what Sherlock said earlier?"  
Derek squinted at him from the corner of his eye but stayed put. There was a sort of questioning grunt that Stiles had no problems interpreting and he huffed.

“Well, that’s not what I meant, but since you brought it up,” said Stiles, taunting. “What was that about _before_ Tahoe?”

“You were helping in the search for Boyd and Erica,” said Derek. He shrugged. “I _saw_ you plenty before Tahoe. All summer.”

“You are _not_ funny,” Stiles informed him. He shook his head and let it go. "Anyway. Does he really want to help us? Or is he just going to hang me or something? What'd you get off him?"

"Nothing, he never changed," said Derek. "I was listening and he was steady the whole time." He started to pull back, concerned about something else based on the tone of his voice. Stiles matched his steps to keep the space bubble from escaping, made himself harder to remove. Derek backed himself into the wall of the house and scowled.

"No, Stiles. Was he right?" asked Derek, his voice quiet and no longer the same smug it had been since they left the kitchen. "About the-"

Stiles shook his head and dug his chin into Derek's shoulder, leaning on him in a silent request to not have to go _there_. "I was trying to defend myself and protect Scott's mom and get _away_. I didn't think it would _kill_ anybody. Literally the last thing I ever want to think about is that. I definitely don't want to _talk_ about it."

It went quiet aside from the night outside the porch. Derek held on tighter, in the way he had where Stiles noticed he curled around him like Derek wanted to pull him in and hide him.

"Your uncle brought him here," said Derek, switching back to the safer topic of whether or not Sherlock could be trusted. "He wouldn't let someone around you that would hurt you."

The logic worked and Stiles gave a distracted nod. He kept quiet but his mind still worried.

He finally had to cave and asked, "What about the other part. My dad."

“That’s your call,” said Derek. He shrugged a little and Stiles dragged on him to keep the sourwolf from gradually shrugging him off at the switchover in topics. "He's the last one to know anything anyway. Werewolves, Stiles. Trust me, everyone with a nose has a clue _except_ your dad."

Stiles pulled a face. "Welp. Great. He's gonna kill me for _that_ again."

Derek frowned and didn't say anything. He tried to pull back but Stiles just followed. He stayed warm and tucked against Derek’s chest but brought himself nose to nose to look at him. The both of them wore looks of complete seriousness and Derek’s was quickly frowned out of as he stared back at Stiles.

"I kinda got you arrested a million times already. You _know_ he’s gonna do it again,” said Stiles soberly. “And damnit, it's not everybody's damn business. He didn’t tell me about sneaking around with Mel."

Derek stared at him for a long, silent moment. Then he shrugged. "So... He'll figure it out on his own then. And then arrest me again."

Stiles ducked his face to Derek’s neck. "Ohmygod. _My life_."

The pair stood on the porch in the dark, in the quiet, for another minute or so before Derek started untangling Stiles from inside his jacket. "Ride's here."

That got him grunted at and Stiles sulked. He still had no answers about how to handle a father who had a bad habit of arresting his favorite of the endangered Hales. And he didn’t want to let Derek around hunters. Or let him in their car, - seriously what the hell was the werewolf thinking getting in the car with strange hunters... - and he really felt like throwing a tantrum after the way the rest of the day had already gone. He caught the front of Derek’s jacket to keep him from moving away and keep his attention until he couldn’t anymore.

"I got it,” he said, because he needed something to say to keep a conversation going, that was just how conversations worked. “I'll tell him and threaten a life of crime if he arrests you again over it. Already got a rap sheet going, so the details are _no_ problem."

"Screw school, grow up to be a hunter," said Derek, amused. But he was still looking at him, so Stiles counted that as a win.

"You should _think_ about your words before you say them," said Stiles, smug. "I'd actually be _good_ at it."

"Not." Derek started walking down the steps and Stiles stared at him, annoyed that they had to leave. Then he ran after him and jumped, surprising Derek as he dragged on the alpha's shoulders.

"Lie. I caught _you_ ," he said, smirking at the man's ear. Then he let go and walked ahead of him to the waiting Impala as Derek tried to fix his jacket.

"Damnit, Stiles..."

 

***

 

The sound of car doors closing roused the sleeping sheriff. It took him a moment to place why a relatively normal night-sound would wake him. His son's voice disappearing into the car would do it. Casey was at the door in a moment and looking out and down the hall. He was surprised to see John sticking his head out of Stiles' borrowed bedroom door.

"Was that-" Casey pointed toward the sound. John frowned at him in the dim hall light.

"Stiles was downstairs not a half hour ago-"

"Fairly certain he's not now." Casey started to withdraw into his room to get dressed but John caught his attention back.

"Derek was with him. Maybe he just took the man home," he said reasonably. Casey paused, frowned. Then he shook his head.

"Nope," he said. "For that he would have asked to take the truck. It says _Sheriff_ right across the sides and _he_ is definitely _not_."

Casey's phone chirped on the nightstand and he went after it, John venturing curiously out into the hall to wait. The text message was from Stiles, which calmed Casey more than he realized it could, and he scowled at the phone for becoming his son's accomplice. Then he read the text.

_Midnight-thirty-ish. Went back to Lydia's to check something. Back ASAP._

"What the hell is that supposed to mean?" Casey asked the phone. It didn't answer, predictably, and he tossed his phone on the bed to figure out if he wanted to sleep or kill his son. Lydia Martin _would_ drag Stiles out of the house at any hour of the night, that was just fact.

The phone beeped again. Casey grabbed it.

_Don't panic. Or at least take a towel. I brought Derek along for backup. :)_

Casey tossed the phone again. His child chose to break curfew quoting Douglas Adams. Considering it was now very, very early Christmas morning, Stiles didn’t even break curfew, he _shattered_ it.

"I'm gonna kill him," muttered Stilinski to himself. "I think if this weren't _today_ , I'd be arranging my son's death. I think. I can't tell yet. Too goddamn early..."

 

***

 

“A tree branch?” The question echoed quietly in the still night, three voices saying it at once, each belonging to three of the four grown men staring up at a branch from a birch tree tangled in a snapped and twisted up electric line behind the Martin home.

“Well? It happens,” said Derek. Sam aimed the flashlight from the tree in the lines to Derek’s face and Stiles jumped forward and swatted at it with an accusing “ _Hey_!” Derek blinked at them, sourfaced from the assault on his sensitive night-vision.

“Yes, it happens. But it’s damn specific about it,” said Sam.

His brother nodded. “Especially after what happened to that kid-”

“His name's _Scott_ ,” said Stiles, annoyed. “Come on. Can you pretend to try a little? I thought we were on the same side here.”

“Vacation,” corrected Dean. “We’re on _vacation_. Or at least we _were_. Now we're not. And we're out in the cold. With werewolves. Don’t expect miracles, kid.”

“Stiles isn’t a wolf,” said Derek, shoulders squared once more now that he could see again. “So back off.”

“Okay! Stahp!” Stiles actually yelled in an effort to get through the posturing priorities of a wolf and a pair of hunters. It was Sam who flinched, Derek too accustomed to Stiles’ ways to be surprised by the outburst. The kid waved his own flashlight around as his arms flailed from sheer exasperation. “I’m sorry I said anything, just go back to being jerks and worrying about the stupid tree in the stupid electrical line. You still gotta give us a ride home. Jeezus.”

“Okay,” agreed Sam gamely. Dean and Derek still glowered at each other. Stiles shoved Derek bodily away from the hunter’s eyeline and stood between them.

“So we have Scott doing a cappella karaoke against his will and a branch breaking off and spinning itself in an electric line _just-so_ in order to kill power to a single house on an extended grid,” said Stiles. “What does your expert hunting experience tell you here? Because I got nothin'. And the library’s closed and I didn’t think to bring my laptop out to play in the rain.”

The Winchesters blinked at Stiles, surprised. “You hunt?” Dean asked, suspicious.

“No,” said Stiles. “My best friend got bit by a wolf. I _anti_ -hunt. Because I like to stay alive, generally.”

It seemed to make sense to them and Sam shrugged. “Faeries.”

“The hell?” blurted Stiles.

“I don’t follow,” added Derek, scowl aimed at Sam. The hunter waved to the snapped line tangled with the unsnapped lines dangerously close to above their heads.

“Faeries can do that,” Sam elaborated. “And the thing with Scott earlier.”

“But a good cold front can do that too,” said Dean. “And Scott might just be behind on his rabies shots.”

Stiles jerked back to brace a shoulder against Derek’s chest and keep the wolf from rising to the bait. Dean smiled at him, smug, and Derek forced an equally false smile back.

“Faeries are a myth.”

“Says the son of a _werewolf_?” replied Sam. “Trust us. They’re real. Sneaky bastards, too.”

“Come on,” said Stiles. He was thinking it over, but faeries weren’t his first thought any more than they had been Derek’s. “What’d Scott do to piss off Tinkerbell?”

“Don’t even think about answering that,” Derek growled at Dean when he saw the hunter’s smug grin return.

“ _Existing_ is a good way to piss off Tinkerbell,” said Sam. Stiles apparently deemed it safe enough to look away from the hunters for a moment - Derek didn’t - and back up to the tree branch. He aimed the flashlight around the area behind the Martin’s home. The beam fell on an oak tree not far from the lines. Bright, glowing-under-the-flashlight white bark, but still a goddamn oak.

“Uhm. I think. Uh. Now’s a good time to leave. Come back later. In the daytime. Daylight good,” said the teenager quickly. He reached out and grabbed Derek’s elbow to drag him toward the car, whether the Winchesters agreed with him or not. Derek trusted Stiles’ instincts enough not to argue and they herded each other out of the back yard.

“What?” asked Dean as the brothers caught up at the car. “What’d you see?”

“I didn’t. And I don’t want to. So can we leave and try again tomorrow?” asked Stiles, waiting impatiently for the doors to be unlocked. Derek kept himself between Stiles and the Martin’s home, a shield just in case Stiles wasn’t being overly paranoid. The Winchesters looked over the car hood at each other, considering. Dean pointed at Stiles.

“Fine. But you talk when we get in the car, kid,” he said. Stiles shook his head.

“Nope. Maybe when I get _home_.”

Dean looked rather like an irritated prairie dog over the top of his monster of a car. “Then maybe you can stay _here_...”

Even Sam tugged on the locked car handle. “Dean...”

Stiles mimed talking into a cell phone. “Hello? Dispatch? Yeah, this is the sheriff’s only kid... a couple guys just kidnapped me and dumped me in the middle of nowhere...” Return fire set, Stiles tucked the imaginary phone in his pocket and stared in open annoyance over at Dean. “Yep, that plan of yours’ll go over great.”

Derek smirked as a very frustrated pair of Winchesters glared at each other over the top of the car. Then Dean cursed and ducked into the car and unlocked Sam’s door. “Freakin’ evil kids. I told you, Sam. I told you.”

Sam rolled his eyes and let Stiles and Derek in once his door was opened.

 

***


	12. Chapter 12

-December 25th-

It was late enough, and everyone was cranky enough when the Winchesters dropped them off at the Stilinskis' that Derek stayed with Stiles rather than risk a ride back to the condo with them. He had stayed a few times since Tahoe, though usually with Scott and Isaac around. Stiles wouldn't share whatever it was that had spooked him at Lydia's, said he had to research first, which didn't make the Winchesters very happy. Sam was alright, Dean was going to bitch and complain, and Stiles would tell them his theory when he was good and ready to. And that wasn’t until the morning when he could get back into his room to fetch his laptop from under the bed that had been given to his uncle and was trapped in by an air mattress.

Stiles turned on an old monster movie and huddled in a blanket to settle down into something resembling sleep in the few hours they had before the rest of the house woke up for Christmas morning festivities. Derek dropped down onto the couch next to him without really thinking about it and Stiles offered up half the throw blanket.

“It doesn’t feel much like Christmas this year,” remarked Stiles as he leaned a shoulder into Derek’s.

“Vincent Price on the TV might have something to do with that,” said Derek.

“Are you kidding? I do this every year,” Stiles said. “Except for the whole hunt-dryads-with-hunters thing is a new thing.”

Surprised that maybe the kid was on to something, Derek lifted an eyebrow at him. “Dryads?”

“Just a theory. Hate freaking faeries. I gotta look into it.” Stiles shrugged. For a long minute, Derek stared at him in the dark, the teenager next to him lit up by the glow of red and green and yellow lights from the Stilinski family Christmas tree and the black and white shadows from the TV. He put the pieces together in his head, the odd behavior, the annoying presence of tree-parasites hanging in doorways everywhere at Lydia's, and then he added in Stiles' reactions to the trees in Lydia's backyard and got distracted.

“You don’t make sense,” he decided. Stiles blinked at his movie and then looked over at him.

“Huh?”

“I saw you back at Lydia’s. It spooked you, so you’re just gonna _look_ _into_ dryads and faeries now. I know you’re not stupid, but you’re stupid enough to run _toward_ things that scare you every time. _You_ don’t have teeth and claws and _should_ have just stayed home on Christmas Eve.”

Stiles scoffed and narrowed his eyes, shook his head at Derek’s months-late realization. “What am I supposed to do? Run away from them? Hide from things that are just gonna find me anyway? Or that will break into my room and scare the shit out of me?”

The answer surprised him and Derek’s eyebrows arched up his forehead as a wry grin touched his lips. “I understood that reference.”

Stiles smirked at him. “Except Kujo doesn’t scare me anymore.”

“That just leaves the faeries, apparently.”

Derek tried not to laugh as Stiles nodded sincerely. “Freakin’ faeries, man. They steal babies and shit.”

It was another random proof of what made Stiles strangely addicting to Derek and he drew Stiles in against him, not disturbing his TV viewing experience but reassuring himself that Stiles was safe and snug in his hold. With one knee up, his foot braced on the edge of the couch and the other kicked against the coffee table, Stiles had the better leverage and the protective hug turned into a brief wrestling match. There was a determined grin on Stiles’ face as he succeeded in shoving Derek over on the couch. His knees draped over Derek’s and the blanket was tangled up, but Stiles was stretched comfortably on his back and had wedged Derek on his side next to him against the back of the couch.

“Better,” Stiles said, smirking. Derek stared at him, shaking his head. “You?”

“Yeah,” said Derek, grinning despite himself. “Yeah, I’m good.”

 

***

 

It wasn't that Christmas wasn't his thing. Stilinski liked the torment of wrapping paper and the bright strings of lights, and having his house smell like a forest was usually a highlight. This year was different though. Everything had changed on him. His life had done a complete one-eighty since Thanksgiving and it hadn't slowed down enough to remember there were holidays to be considered. His kid's life had changed so much, he didn't expect Stiles cared about the old traditions of fat men in red suits bringing presents. Not if he would sneak out in the middle of the night for reasons that weren’t to check the roof for reindeer. Casey didn't even know what to get for Stiles this year and had scrabbled together stuff for lacrosse and an IOU for a few hours regular time at the shooting range because the kid was getting a license to carry _ASAfreakinP_. Carry _what_ , he wasn’t sure of yet, but _something_.

And then Casey walked into the room with the tree and the TV and the couch to sneak a few more presents in before his son woke up. The usually clumsy sheriff was absolutely silent juggling boxes and a bag and it went off smooth and perfect and he didn't wake Stiles. Casey would go start coffee in the kitchen and pat himself on the back for something finally going according to plan.

That plan was forgotten the moment he turned around and saw the couch. Or more specifically the two people on it, curled _together_ rather than just sharing the furniture, when he had been expecting only one.

There was really no way Stilinski could say it was a surprise. The _Derek Hale_ part of the equation was unexpected, and after ten years of hearing about the perfection of Lydia Martin it was a drastic turn-around, but still not really a surprise. The short, light and redhead model traded in for something taller, darker and... wolf. That part... bugged Casey. But Stiles was asleep, passed out, set to snore through an earthquake, and he still managed a solid hold of Derek’s arm across his ribs over their shared blanket. Casey knew better than to try prying his kid’s paws off of anything he had his mind set on, so he would get used to it. Just like everything else lately.

Now he _really_ needed coffee.

_Merry Christmas, Stilinski,_ Casey thought to himself, _the world has officially flipped upside down on you. Better appreciate what you’ve got while you’ve got it._

 

***

 

The bed moved from the weight of another body and Mel peeked an eye open. She had talked to Casey on the phone just a few hours ago, he had planned on Christmas with Stiles and John so it was too early for a surprise visit. Unless Sherlock had finally managed to drive the Stilinski boys mad, in which case... But no, Mel realized. It was Talia. The big wolf muzzle with the gray mask poked at Mel's face and she playfully batted it away. That wasn't enough though and the wolf kept on until Mel was sitting up, groggy but away from the call of her pillow. She glared at her nurse-the-wolf and then the alarm clock on the bed stand. Hardly eight AM.

"You're worse than Scott," muttered Mel. Talia wagged a tail and sat patiently on the covers, blocking any move Mel might have made toward going back to sleep on Christmas morning. Melissa stared blearily around the room, listening to the house. That's when she heard Scott and Isaac bickering, sounded like in the kitchen.

"Oh. Right. The kitchen," said Mel. "We have to do the cooking today..."

The wolf beside her woofed in confirmation. Then the wolf put her head to Mel's back and started pushing her off the bed.

"Okay! I'm going!" Mel yelped. She stumbled to the shower to wake up and by the time she got out, Talia had gotten dressed, made the bed, and pulled out fresh clothes for Mel. Then they rebandaged the wolf claw slashes still healing across her shoulder and back.

"I think hens get a bad rap," said Mel in complaint. "Wolves are worse."

"Nurses are worse," said Talia. "You of anyone should know better but you're going to push it anyway."

"I have stuff to do. Pack to boss. I'm busy." Mel shook her head, snuck a peek at the gashes on the back of her arm before Talia buried them under antiseptic and a few yards of gauze. Talia didn't say anything about the bossy alpha line and just finished up her fussing.

"Now. You're going to go track down your children and your annoying brother and have Christmas," Mel ordered.

"That was actually my thinking," Talia agreed with a smile on her face.

"Good," said Melissa. Once again dressed and presentable, Mel stood and went for the cardigan draped over her dresser.

"I'm telling Scott not to let you in the kitchen until I get back," Talia said. The smug warning was met with a roll of her eyes and Mel shook her head.

"I'm telling my son not to listen to you," said Mel. "I win."

Talia looked about to argue but Mel held out a hand to pull the woman off her perch at the edge of the bed. "But I promise not to start on dinner until I have help. So I can take care of myself and get back to taking care of everybody else that much faster," she said. "I do listen. When I want to."

Talia seemed to accept that as gracefully as she accepted anything else and Mel was able to herd her out into the hall. They each had Christmas with their kids to get to.

 

***

 

It was odd for Allison, realizing how much of her life had been for show. It was a facade, her mother being perfect and keeping their homes perfect and insisting on traditions that were from Chris' family and not hers. If Victoria was perfect and her child was well-adjusted on the path to perfect, then no one looked twice at her husband's dangerous lifestyle. And that had kept Gerard Argent out of their lives for most of Allison's life, so there was something to it.

So, with her mother's training at the front of her mind and borrowing from Melissa's holiday determination, Allison had decorated the condo, perfect enough to pass her mother's inspection. Which meant that Christmas morning looked a lot like every other Christmas. It just wasn't the same.

The night before, Allison and her dad went to midnight mass like always, though that hadn't been the plan; the party breaking up early had left Allison with no excuses not to stick to tradition. They said their prayers and listened to sermons and came home to a couple of unhappy Winchesters lurking in the hall because they had locked themselves out. It wasn't the addition of the Winchesters that made it all wrong though, it was the absence of someone else. Allison had watched her dad let them in, saw him force a grin at Dean's complaint at his brother's trying to cancel their vacation, and she realized that he hadn't smiled once all day. She hadn't since the party. Their little family was missing someone.

That realization had sent Allison to her room in a hurry; she didn't sleep, just threw pencils at the curtains and pretended they were knives. She didn't cry, just perfected her technique. Crying wasn't allowed, it wouldn't serve her mother's memory at all, but Allison didn't know how to grieve. It made for an awful night.

So walking out to a pristine, perfectly decorated Christmas tree that morning kind of hurt a little. Dean and Sam didn't leave the office and Allison and her father had a small exchange of gifts, just the two of them. It wasn't unhappy. There was just an empty spot next to her father that Allison didn't know what to do with. She scrunched her nose and blinked back tears and unfolded a carefully taped bit of wrapping paper to see what the next surprise was. It got better after that, if she just kept going.

So she did. And the two Argents were smiling by the time the Winchesters poked their heads out of the office. They were looking for food but didn’t want to interrupt family-time, but Chris called them into the room anyway. Perfectly comfortable in her spot on the floor near the tree, Allison shuffled her pile of gifts politely out of sight behind the ottoman but Chris didn’t bother. When he talked Dean and Sam into taking a seat and being social, he stood up himself and went after a few boxes in annoying bright wrapping paper that had been tucked behind the tree.

“You boys wanted the discount,” Chris said as he handed the gifts to the surprised Dean and Sam. “So Merry Christmas. And Happy New Year. And happy birthday, whenever that rolls around too.”

Allison almost laughed as Dean tore into the paper like he was eight years old while Sam was more careful and polite about his. After having seen the trunk of the Impala, Allison figured the last things the Winchesters needed were more guns, but apparently her father read them differently, because they got new handguns. Dean held up a shiny Desert Eagle and blinked at it like he didn’t quite believe it was there, in his hand. And they still had another box each! Allison smiled at her dad; he was certainly in the Christmas spirit this year, even if he kept it hidden well.

“Those are clean,” said Chris. The front door knocked and he stood up to answer it but still kept his attention on Dean and Sam.

“Completely cleared, marked destroyed. So if those get back to me or mine at all, I’m personally arranging your funerals.”

“Not a problem,” promised Dean happily. He shook the box of ammo that sat in the gun case as though he could count the shells by sound. Allison shook her head and lightly beat her forehead against her updrawn knees. A moment later, her dad was back in the room, looking surprised. Allison saw Talia Hale peeking around behind him just as Dean’s head came up, attention effectively removed from the presents.

“Do I smell pie?” he asked. He was promptly handed a foil-wrapped pie-tin that was still warm. The grown man looked like he wanted to cry. Sam just stared in shock. Talia smiled at them as she took a seat on the end of the couch, near Allison without crowding her. Dean had to take his precious pie out of the room for safe keeping. Then Talia held a present out to Allison.

"What- but..." Allison stammered out, surprised.

"I haven't had a holiday in so long," Talia told her quietly, a smile on her face. She shrugged. "I went a little crazy on this one."

Allison started to open her gift but her attention was caught by Sam. He had opened his gift and stared in at a wooden box filled with bullets. He pulled one out, looked at it curiously. "What is this?" Sam asked.

"We’ll call them werewolf bullets," said Talia. "And no, I'm not telling you what's in them. If you don't already know, you don't need to."

Chris and Allison stared in open shock at the woman. She looked back at them. Chris gave a wave toward the gift in silent question, and Talia nodded at him in answer.

"I know hunters, or at least I should by now," she said. "Sam and Dean are your kind. Not your father's."

"We're still on vacation," Dean reminded her as he walked back in the room. "Just like Vegas, only cleaner."

"Vegas or not, you'll think twice about using those on anyone who doesn't deserve it," said Talia. "And they could keep you safe. You never know."

Sam caught the look Allison aimed at him and his brother and the big man held up his hands innocently. "We definitely won't use them in Beacon Hills," he promised quickly. Allison nodded her approval and hid her smug grin against her knees. Chris looked on from beside Talia, eyebrow raised as he looked between the Winchesters and his daughter.

"I'm thinking I missed a memo," he said, suspicious. Dean shot a glare at Allison and she gave him her most innocent smile in return.

 

***

 

The coffee woke Stiles first. Shortly afterward came the realization that someone else in the house was awake enough to start the coffee going in the first place. And then he remembered falling asleep on the couch with-

“Ohcrap...” The teenager startled upright and almost fell off the couch before he realized he was the only one in the room. That made him feel marginally better but he still scrambled on socked feet to the kitchen. He slid into the room and saw that Derek was still alive and not arrested. Best Christmas present of the day, right there. (Second best: Derek had volunteered to cook breakfast, which meant his dad wasn’t, because his dad was a _really_ bad cook and Stiles hadn’t figured out how to keep his uncle from finding that out yet.)

Stiles thought that maybe he and Derek were getting a free pass on the whole day until about the middle of their meal, John and Sherlock at the table just to complete the surreal Norman Rockwell painting he had woken up in. His dad had even complimented Derek on the idea of breakfast as a pinch-hit Christmas gift.

“But don’t think the _two_ of you are off the hook this easy,” Casey said. Stiles stopped chewing his food and almost choked on it as he looked up at his dad. He looked over at Derek, worried. The thought of playing dumb stuck around for exactly one-point-five seconds but John caught Stiles’ attention with a raised eyebrow and he knew better than to try it. He nodded and ducked back to his food, and Derek sat a little taller next to him and muttered a “Yessir,” that Stiles echoed because it was a good idea.

Stiles was over it the second his father tossed him a present from under the tree and the _presents!_ part of Christmas was commenced. He had pulled together gifts for everyone there that morning - though he hadn’t planned Derek to _be_ there - and was proud of himself for the accomplishment. His dad had appointed himself the present-delivery-service to go along with his role as Santa the night before (he even kept the hat from it) and Stiles beamed at the surprised look on Derek’s face when his gift smacked him in the chest. The iPod went over well with Derek, a little less-so with Stiles’ dad, but Stiles was too buzzed in the head from the look on Derek’s face when he broke into the wrapping.

It was still early when Derek’s cell phone rang and the whole Christmas vibe more or less faded away. He left to answer it and Stiles distractedly tried to ignore the conversation as he broke into a gift from his uncle (“ _Holy crap! Actual_ British _Doctor Who stuff!_ ” wasn’t the most intelligent thing Stiles had ever said in public,) to keep from going to eavesdrop outright.

Derek had his jacket on when he walked back into the room. Stiles had heard Talia on the phone before the conversation had gone out of his pitiful not-a-wolf range and he looked up at Derek, worried.

“What’s wrong?” he asked automatically. “Is your mom okay?”

Derek frowned at him. “She’s fine,” he said mildly. “It’s Christmas, Stiles. Calm down. Just for the day?”

Stiles raised an eyebrow at him. He wasn’t buying it. “Then where are you going?”

“Scott’s.”

“I’m going,” said Stiles. He climbed over the couch and was out of the room that much more quickly. He headed upstairs, too mindful of his friends’ smart assery to dare show up to Scott’s in the morning with Derek and him both in the clothes they had worn to the party.

“Scott’s mom’s having a... dog problem,” he heard Derek say as he tromped up the stairs. Stiles almost tripped, torn between laughing at Derek’s awkward effort at speaking-code to the sheriff in front of the uninitiated and panic as he wondered what would have Talia calling for back-up at Scott’s.

A freshly-dressed Stiles pounded down the stairs hardly minutes later and was met by a confused expression on Derek’s face.

“What? Let’s go,” said Stiles as he went after his jacket. Derek raised an eyebrow at him. He pulled a hand from his pocket and showed Stiles the small package wrapped in _Happy Birthday!_ paper that he had found in the jacket while Stiles was upstairs. Stiles broke out in a sudden grin. He shrugged into his jacket.

“So you get two,” he said simply, smug. Derek stared at him for a moment and then tucked the gift back in the pocket it had come from. Stiles mimed zipping his mouth closed, the grin still there.

“Go,” said Derek roughly, pointing him out the door. Stiles pulled out his phone as he walked out onto the porch, sending Talia a quick text to thank her for the _actual information_ she had given him that Derek’s expression had so briefly confirmed. The phone went back in his pocket and Derek caught his elbow to pull him to a stop just at the steps. It was cold and raining on the sidewalk but they weren’t far from Scott’s and would still arrive dry enough if they didn’t take their time about it... and then Derek surprised Stiles by pulling him in for a kiss. Stiles smiled into it.

“Happy birthday,” he muttered when Derek let him go. Derek grinned back at him.

“Merry Christmas,” the werewolf replied. They started walking toward Scott’s again, moving more quickly as the rain and cold settled in.

“Does that make you, like, Jesus?” Stiles smirked over at him. Derek shook his head soberly.

“Nope,” he said. “I’m not _actually_ that old.”

 

***

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sOOOOooo I meant to post last night. Sorry! Also... given that this short little fluff ball turned into a big long monster fic again, I should probably update the tags? Yes? No? I'm not sure if there's anything we should be warning about since the fluff is interspersed with *draaammmaaaaaa!!!* (Not my fault. Blame Derek. And Allison. And Stilinski family feels.)
> 
> Yeah. caffeine obvs wore off for the day. I'm just gonna post now...


	13. Chapter 13

-December 25th-

 

Stiles and Derek let themselves into the McCall house, which turned out to be unwise because someone red-headed and _hot_ was walking by the door from the kitchen. Before Derek was in the room, Stiles had a very-serious-business handgun pointed right at his forehead and he almost panicked right there on the spot. Then Melissa’s visitor saw Derek follow him inside and realized the kid belonged there. She muttered an apology and crossed her arms, looking to Derek for an explanation of early morning visitors who didn't knock first. Derek rushed out quick introductions and Stiles calmed down. A little. Scott scampered into the hall then, mouth open to ask something. Then he got distracted and pounced on Stiles' jacket.

"Is that snow?" he blurted. He swatted some off his shoulders just to check. "Are you kidding me? You're wearing snow!"

The scene caught attention and Natasha looked over as Clint entered the hall, Melissa and Talia not far behind. Natasha arched a smug eyebrow. "I thought you said it didn't snow in California, Clint."

"It doesn't," came a full chorus of shocked voices.

"At least not here in the valley," added Talia. "Below sea level."

Scott stared out the front windows, just barely refraining from going out in the falling white-stuff. "It snowed. We got snow on Christmas. That is so... Weird, really."

Derek looked completely unimpressed as he shook the water off of his coat. "Snow is not why we're over here."

"It has been a weird morning," said Melissa.

Talia looked up from her cell phone and another text message. "Have you seen Cora?" she asked her son.

"No... Not since the party."

Talia held up the phone. "Neither have any of the rest of us. She went out to check on Peter last night and then was going to stay at the condo. I just came from the apartment and she hasn't been there."

"What about Lydia?" asked Stiles, looking back at Derek. He saw the expression change as Derek started mentally checking through his corner of the pack, as close to a head-count as a gut-feeling could get. He caught Stiles watching him and his frown intensified.

Melissa shook her head. "She hasn't returned texts or phone-"

Then Derek's cell phone rang. He blinked at it. Answered cautiously on speaker.

"HELP! Right now! Get your wolf claws over here and _kill this thing_!"

There was a bottleneck at the front door as the group ran for the cars. Mel gave the SUV keys to a confused but concerned Clint and chased them out the door. Derek gave the screeching cell phone to Stiles and then grabbed his mother's arm and headed for the kitchen and the back door. Wolf-express was faster than the cars.

"What the hell-" The surprised yelping from the phone settled down and Stiles could recognize a voice from it. "Lydia?! What's going on?"

"I think it's Peter! And that is definitely Cora. This is _Not Okay!_ Where are they?" The panic was distracting. Stiles couldn't tell if he could actually feel her panicking or if Lydia was just setting off his own natural tendencies toward panic lately. It took him a minute to process what she said and what the words meant.

"On their way. They just..." Stiles looked around and realized everyone had left. "Shit."

He spotted a flashy set of keys lazily tucked in a jacket hanging from the coat rack. He needed to go help Lydia. It was going to drive him crazy just standing there, holding the phone and not able to do anything. But he had to think about it. Maybe he could handle staying at Scott's. Lydia would calm down and then he would calm down and the wolves would have everything handled. For now Stiles did good to focus past the big neon sign in his brain blinking " _Danger! Lydia!_ " and help her how he could.

"Head for higher ground! You've got an attic, right? Closed space, no windows... Right?" he asked into the phone. "The others will be there..."

And then Lydia let out another panicked squeak. Stiles echoed her, grabbed the keys, and ran out the door.

 

***

 

The holiday morning rituals obviously weren’t the same for Casey without the kid in the equation, and John reasoned that Sherlock would probably start a lab experiment in the refrigerator out of spite if he had to pretend to be interested in the festivities longer than necessary. Rather than try to layer on another polite lie - that Stiles would be back soon, for instance, or a variety of other possibilities around the hastily decorated Christmas tree - Casey suggested a pot of coffee, and Sherlock countered with a preference for tea, which still was an excuse to hit the kitchen. John trailed after his former brother-in-law before Casey had a chance to try making tea; he drank coffee and would be far too out of practice for Sherlock’s standards. And there was no missing the slight twitch Casey had developed that left him glancing toward the front hall every minute or so.

“We’ll be fine on our own for a few hours if you need,” John offered. He let Casey hunt up the teapot; the boiling-water stage was pretty hard to get wrong and he wasn’t going to shoo the man out of his own kitchen. Stilinski shook his head, dismissing the offer with mild amusement.

"I'm sure the boys can deal with it. Mel would have let me know if they needed me along."

John nodded, ignoring Sherlock's arched brow at the familiarity Casey spoke with in regard to the woman. He handed Sherlock the ubiquitous laptop off the table and then John waved the annoying know-it-all out of the kitchen again. When he was sure Sherlock was gone, John stuck his hands in his pockets and tried not to fidget as his friend had hit on yet another over-keen observation that John wasn’t sure he knew quite what to do with.

"So, ah, you and Melissa," John started, then faltered, not at all certain this was his place.

"Yeah," Casey turned from loading the last of the breakfast dishes into the dishwasher. Feigning nonchalance he leaned against the counter, a dishrag over one shoulder and ankles crossed. "It's a new thing, really...."

“I remember her from the- from before. She and Claudia were friends,” said John. Stilinski nodded, wincing a little.

“Yeah,” he said. “And the boys have always been like brothers. Scott and Stiles. But even with them kicking around, Mel and I didn’t spend any time together until the last couple of months. We just... didn’t have the time for it, didn’t make the time for anything but the kids and work.”

John shook his head. “Stiles never made mention you’d become a monk or... something. And I don’t want to be telling you your business,” he said. “But it’s - well, I think my sister would approve of this one. Of Melissa. Stiles certainly seems alright with it, running off to save her from... dogs.”

“Oh...”

“I’m only mentioning it at all because if I don’t, Sherlock will keep making faces about it _every_ time you so much as look at the woman and it’s really getting distracting,” said John, expression honest and amused despite himself.

“I will not,” came the indignant muttering from the other room. John’s eyebrows lifted up his forehead but he managed to not roll his eyes out of his head. He merely waved in illustration of his point. Casey nodded, amused.

“And I assume she’ll be joining us for dinner?” said John, moving on. “And Scott and-” He stopped as Casey winced like a man in pain. “What?”

“Dinner will be a repeat of last night,” said Casey, sighing. “Only add in me and a couple of Mel’s friends, subtract the Martins. And it’ll be at Melissa’s. So... a bit cramped.”

“Oh.” John blinked and shrugged, shoved his hands in his pockets. “Well. That will be interesting then, won’t it?”

 

***

 

Mel wasn’t the least bit disappointed in herself for making Clint drive the SUV. He followed directions beautifully and drove safely enough with the pedal to the floor, and there was no way her son would have been able to arrive at Lydia’s front lawn so quickly. At least, not without attracting a police escort that they didn’t want, because Sheriff Stilinski had the day off and would have been very pissed off at Mel and Talia both if he had been forced to go bail them out on Christmas. The SUV was hardly stopped before Scott and Isaac were out and running across the grass to where everyone could see the dark, inhuman mutation hanging from the roof’s edge and clawing at the brick. Mel started to get out but Clint stopped her.

“You are not getting out of this car, young lady,” he told her firmly. She grinned at him.

“If I didn’t think you could handle this, Clint, you would be back with Stiles. So just... trust me. I’ll explain later,” she said. She glanced between Clint and Natasha. “Maybe... maybe you should stay in the car. At least until we get things under control.”

As he spluttered, offended, Melissa ducked away from him and out the door. She tugged her arm free of the sling and ran after the boys. A pair of black wolves growled from the ground as Scott and Isaac climbed the lattice work. Up on the roof, Cora peeked down at them, snarling at the charred gray beast and trying to dislodge his claws from the roof tiles. Mel stared up at the deformed monster, seeing something that looked bigger than even Derek’s half-shifted form but still something impossibly more hellish and unnatural. And it looked burned extra crispy.

“Please tell me you know what that is-” Mel called up to Scott. She cringed as her son jumped from the latticework to the roof, the _freaking show-off_.

“It’s Peter!” Scott shouted back. Mel’s jaw dropped.

“Are you kidding me!” She darted toward the house, closer. She knew Peter and was fairly confident that after the last two weeks’ adventures, she would recognize the man’s half-shifted form. This wasn’t anything like the high nose ridge and pointed ears and sharp fangs she expected, and it wasn’t at all like the two wolves that snapped below the monster trying to break into the Martin’s attic spaces.

“Peter Hale!” Melissa shouted up at him, as much determined force as she could manage. It echoed around the big, sheltered yard and caught the attention of one of the wolves on the ground. The monster above stopped scratching the wall and looked down at her.

“Melissa!” yelped Clint, the man all but outraged that she would voluntarily attract the monster’s attention. He showed up at her shoulder, Natasha at the other. Melissa looked over at them and saw knives in Natasha’s hands. Clint held up a crossbow. “Your friend travels with heavy artillery for a lawyer.”

“Yeah. Lawyer on a hit-list, remember?” Melissa said. She split her attention between Clint and the Peter-monster that looked to be trying to climb down from the roof while still avoiding the wolves below him. “I told you to stay in the car.”

“Aren’t you cute,” said Clint. He set the crossbow and took aim at the beast hanging from the roof. The bolt only seemed to annoy Peter and the mad wolf jumped down on his own, landing intentionally on one of the four-legged black wolves, claws out. There was almost instantly a snarling, gnashing dogfight under the Martin’s dining room window and Melissa winced as one of the wolves nearly went through it.

“Peter! Knock it off!” Without the .45, Mel’s only contribution to the fight could be distraction and she trusted her pack enough to try it, despite Clint’s annoyed faces for it. Not long later, Natasha smirked at her and then launched herself into the fray, knives first. The athletic woman seemed to have figured out for herself who the good guys were and Melissa held back, in awe as Natasha helped draw the monster away from the house and into a better position to fight.

“You act like this is normal. I can’t believe this is your life,” Clint said to Melissa, the man with the crossbow holding guard between the woman and her own pack without a clue. Despite herself, Mel grinned at him briefly.

“It’s the _new_ normal,” she said. If one pack-battle a week earlier counted as normal, anyway. “But this is my life apparently.” She looked back to the fight to see her son do something stupid and she almost growled. “ _Scott_ McCall! You leave that tree where you found it!”

 

***

 

When Lydia reported that she now had a wolf fight on her front lawn, Stiles almost turned around and went back. He was going to be killed. He just _stole_ an _Audi_. Melissa definitely didn’t own an Audi. And the emergency scenario no longer actually applied; the pack had gotten to Lydia without actual damage happening. He still felt panicked, but there was nothing he could do that a werewolf couldn't do better.

A sudden jolt of ghost pain in his shoulder hit and then left and it kicked at his conscience like some cosmic hint. The car thief should quit while he was ahead and before anyone noticed the theft. But the Audi was a lot more fun to drive than his much-missed jeep. That part was hard to ignore. Because he was terminally stupid, Stiles decided to show up and own it, maybe yell at people for leaving him behind because that was a jerk-move on their part.

It turned out to not be such a bad idea after all. Through the slush falling on the windshield, Stiles saw a black shape dart across the street not far from Lydia's. Derek's wolf. With a bloody red shoulder. Stiles frowned, not sure where the wolf was going. A moment later he saw a half-transformed Peter - the ugly huge alpha-thing Peter hadn't had the strength to manage since he had _unsuccessfully died_ \- chasing after Derek. Across the street. In front of Stiles and the stolen car.

A monster was chasing his alpha. It had terrorized his pack and hurt Derek. His pack, his Lydia. His alpha, his Derek. Stiles “ _accidentally_ ” floored it.

 

***

Clint watched as Tony Stark's car rammed into the ridiculously huge monster in the middle of the street. No big deal. Audi hoods crumpled like tin cans. And Clint didn’t want to think about what their windshields did when crashed into by some two-hundred pounds of stony, inhuman muscle.

But it worked. The monster faded into passed-out stillness, even as the kid behind the wheel shouted at it, incomprehensible from inside the barely-together safety-glass.

"What the hell did you do!" Clint approached the car as the driver got out. He recognized the kid and looked to Mel, confused. "You let Scott hang out with _car thieves_? _Tony's car..._ "

The kid ignored the complaint and Clint wanted very badly to _shoot_ him. But he didn't, because the stupid kid was the first of the group to the monster body on the car, and he rather fearlessly tugged at the massive arm in an effort to drag the beast down from the hood. He looked a little sick and whiplashed, but he wasn’t afraid of the monster. Clint reluctantly moved to help - if a kid could do it, he could do it - and Natasha backed him up. The both of them jumped back as the kid yanked an arrow out of the body’s shoulder and almost instantly it started shrinking and transforming. Right there on Tony's car _oh god no don't do that there_...

The bloody mess was, apparently, just a man having a very bad day. He was left with shredded clothes and blood stains, but the arrow wound had _disappeared_. Clint and Natasha stared, wide-eyed, but they were the only ones shocked. Everyone else looked angry and confused.

“Peter?” asked Melissa, stepping forward to check on the man on the car.

"Mel?" Clint asked, reaching out and keeping the small woman from approaching the man-monster.

"It's okay," she said, holding him off. "He knows me."

" _That_ concerns me greatly," replied Clint. Mel made a face but ducked down to check the man still on the car hood. Movement caught Clint's attention and he looked up to see a pair of black wolves scramble up to the roof of the Audi to look down on the monster. One of the wolves had been nearly ripped in half by the monster but even he looked concerned. And they apparently liked scratching up car paint jobs once the cars were otherwise ruined. Annoyed, Clint shoved the kid who had stolen and smashed the Audi to keep him away from the monster.

"What the hell were you doing? It's not your car!" he accused, angry but tramping down on it. Beside him, Natasha huffed.

"Not yours either," she reminded him.

"Not helpful, Nat!"

The kid squinted between them, then seemed to shrug it off. He shook his head. He looked around at the crowd gathered at the front of the Audi and all but ignored Clint.

"When _Scott_ went crazy, we had to trigger the healing to fix him. Peter's a lot bigger and a lot crazier. So a bite - or an _arrow_ \- wasn't gonna do it," he said. "Sorry, but not sorry. You’ve got no _idea_ what this guy could do."

"Good thinking, Stiles," said Mel quietly, "but maybe next time use the SUV? It's built for _this_. An Audi isn't." She looked up at Clint, calmer and apparently reassured that monster-man would live, but still horrified and apologetic about the car. "I'm so sorry about the car, Clint..."

"That's okay," said Natasha helpfully. "It wasn't his to start with."

Clint stared at the sky and got a face full of snowflakes. In Northern California. Below sea level where it wasn’t _supposed_ to snow. How was this vacation his idea?

“Clint’s old enough to know what he was doing, why-ever he did it,” said Mel, "That doesn't excuse-"

"Don't _even_!" said Stiles. He pointed at where Peter lay on the hood instead of a monster. "He's going to be fine, and Derek's head is still attached, and it took _a car_ to do it! And it's not even his car-"

"We did actually, technically, steal it," said Natasha. Stiles pointed at her helpfulness in triumph. Clint glowered. Try to do something nice for a girl and she turns on him. _Every_. _Time_. Natasha didn’t even notice, her attention caught on the wolves on the car hood. “So that one’s Derek? As in-”

Natasha’s curiosity was talked over by the kid who liked ramming cars into things. "See. You can't yell at me for helping when you guys _ditched_ me at the house and this was the only way I had to get here," insisted Stiles. "And if I hadn't, you would have been up a creek with Peter because the rest of you weren't there last night with Scott and _he_ wouldn't have thought to hit anybody with a car."

"That says some interesting things about you, kid," Clint observed, thinking it over.

"He's had a lot of practice with _interesting_ lately," said Melissa, frowning. "He's our out-of-the-box thinker."

"Yeah, I guess so." Clint still wanted to shoot the kid for busting him so bad on stealing the Audi. He looked to Natasha and then past her back toward the house and the hastily parked SUV no one had thought to use to ram a monster. "Tony's going to kill me for this, isn't he?"

Natasha smirked at him. "Nah," she said, still too amused by the whole thing, "This car is over five years old and younger than thirty. He'll be fine with it. Never drives it."

"Oh. I did good then," said Clint, sighing.

Natasha shrugged, watching the wreck as the monster-man Peter was carefully dragged off the car between Scott and Isaac. "Tony gave this car to Pepper like two years ago. _Pepper's_ going to kill you. Tony will love you. Now he gets to buy her a new one. But yeah, Potts will be at the very least _litigious_."

Melissa looked between a frustrated Stiles and the more-frustrated Clint. She winced and gave the man a guilty grimace on Stiles’ behalf. “Well,” she said, trying for something remotely positive. “If it helps at all, at least I know a really good lawyer now.”

Clint turned and paced away, hands at the back of his neck as he silently cursed at the sky. Between freak snowstorms and monsters, California was determined to get him killed apparently, one way or another.

 

***


	14. Chapter 14

The kitchen was a no-fly zone to everyone except Talia and Mel and whoever was brave enough to help the two women hobble together Christmas dinner. The meal had been planned, but it was way behind schedule, and Melissa was determined. The solution was that the boys were sent to the Stilinski house to cook a few things there, somewhere not underfoot and not far away, and they would bring it back. The teenagers took to the idea like grateful ducks to water.

The adults were another story. Peter was on a short leash with Talia, his sister on the borderline about believing he hadn't been in possession of his own mind in order to shift into the broken wolf. And Clint was holding all of Mel's pack on a short leash as soon as he figured out exactly what all that would entail. The man stayed out of the way but nonetheless supervised the kitchen activities while trying to make sense of the not-peaceful Christmas he had stumbled in to.

"Okay, so no, _werewolves_ are not the strangest thing I have ever seen in my life," reasoned Clint, "But you being one of them -"

Mel shook her head at him. "Not a wolf, just an alpha. Pack is completely equal opportunity."

The man blinked at her, like she was overlooking a very important detail to his effort at conversation. "Fine. You are still the last person I would expect to be up to your neck in werewolves."

"And yet..." Mel sighed, shaking her head. Her tone took on a false cheer and a wry smile. "Merry Christmas, Clint! We just survived a werewolf attack. I just helped you notch a whole new belt, huh?"

The man seemed to give up then, allowing a thoughtful, if not impressed, nod of agreement. Natasha looked between them from the safety of the doorway.

"How exactly did you two meet again?" she asked. Mel scrunched her nose and looked to Clint.

"Unlike your brush with the yeti-named-Peter, that one actually might still be classified."

Clint shrugged and nodded. "She has the clearance. I'll tell her later."

Mel gave an approving nod. "Knock yourself out, just not around here. The walls have highly sensitive ears and loud mouths."

"Understood."

Venturing to step into the room, Natasha took a seat at the kitchen table. She smirked over at her partner. "I actually want to hear this story now, Clint."

The man crossed his arms and rolled his eyes. "Figures."

"I haven't shot you for the snow yet," said Natasha, a hand waving out the window. Clint shook his head at her.

"You don't _get_ to. This is obviously not normal atmospheric phenomena, completely not my fault."

"Obviously?" asked Mel and Talia at once. Mel was challenging him in jest but Talia was genuinely worried the man had figured something out without sharing.

"Well yeah," said Clint. "Exactly nothing normal has happened since we got here. Trust me, I know better than to assume the weather can't be messed with."

Talia and Mel looked at each other soberly. Clint looked between them, surprised. "You can't tell me you didn't already have that figured out."

"It's not like I've ever dealt with monsters that control the weather," said Mel. "That's a whole new one on me."

"Darachs," said Talia. "You said the storm of the century hit when the darach started making headway on her sacrifices."

"But that was weather. Storms. Violence," said Mel. "Like she was punishing the land itself for helping the bad guys. This is just... Snow."

"Fluffy, too," added Natasha. "It won't stick."

"Whenever it stops," agreed Talia.

"I still want to know what a darach is," announced Clint. Mel shook her head adamantly.

"Nope, not getting it out of me. No way, no how."

 

***

 

"Where's the computer?" asked Stiles. It was like he owned the place or something, paced right into the loft determined on something and not waiting for Derek's permission. The wolf shook his head and left him to it.

"Check the table?" he suggested. Why make it easy? Stiles found his prey easily enough and brought it back to sit on the counter, hovering just outside of Derek's space enough to not be in it as Derek started looking for food.

"Still think it's the dryads?" Derek asked him. Stiles shrugged, tapping away at keys one-handed.

"No idea. But it means business so it needs narrowed down like yesterday," said Stiles. "If for no other reason than I need to go home some time this year and if I don't have a legitimate reason for crashing a car into your uncle I think I might actually get killed."

Derek frowned. "Pretty sure the sheriff has met my uncle. That's plenty of reason for anybody."

Stiles smirked at him briefly but went back to the computer. "Yeah. Not like it was for a joyride or anything. Whiplash hurts whether it’s in an Audi or a jeep."

"My point exactly."

"And how's your shoulder? All healed, right? I can't even kiss it and make it better. I swear you guys are no fun," said Stiles, distracted by the computer.

"Hard to do behind a laptop anyway," returned Derek.

Stiles pulled a face at the screen. "I can multitask."

"Time and dryad wait for no man. Do your research. We have time before dinner. Unless you're in a hurry to get back to Mel's and her newest carless houseguest..."

"I told you before, you are not _allowed_ to take sides on the car thing. Don't even." Stiles scowled. "I am sleeping here to hide from my dad tonight just to piss you off if you say one more word about it."

Opening the refrigerator hid Derek's smirk well. "Did you have to use an _Audi_?"

Stiles just shook his head, a smug grin on his face. "You get the couch, jerk."

"I need the counter. You get the couch," returned Derek. Stiles finally looked up.

"What? You got space- oh." Stiles stared at the big potted poinsettia taking up the counter with him. "Where the hell is that from? You guys didn't decorate."

"Lydia's. She brought it over as a peace offering. And as an excuse to double check that Peter wasn't planning on inviting himself to a party he was anti-invited to yesterday."  
Attention back on the computer screen, Stiles smirked and shrugged. "Two birds, one plant."

He still hadn't moved so Derek stared at him, brows raised. Then the arms crossed. "Stiles?"

"What? Oh, yeah, got it. One sec though..."

It took a round of dirty pool to get Stiles off the counter, and Derek wasn't sure if it was the mark he tried to leave on his neck or the actual physical removal of the laptop from his hands that finally got Stiles to move. Stiles seemed to think it was retaliation when he took the computer and camped out with it in the middle of Derek's bed instead of the couch. The werewolf just watched him over his shoulder to keep track of him but focused mostly on finding himself lunch.

"Hey... If you're actually making food?" Stiles called out after it became very obvious that Derek hadn't just kicked him off the counter to be surly. "I'll take one of whatever you're having."

"The neighbor's cat and left over kibble," said Derek.

"Don't joke. Cats are delicacies in some cultures," replied Stiles. Then he frowned - still focused on the laptop - and seemed to have second thoughts. "Actually. Don't joke. In some cultures, cats are gods. And we kinda have enough on our plate as it is."

Derek looked back at him, brows raised in innocence. "So I take it you don't want any after all?"

"You and your cat-eating mouth get nowhere near mine, that's all I'm saying," said Stiles. Derek smirked down at the sandwich he had already made for himself. Two was easy enough.

 

***

 

The food project was going better than Melissa had expected it would and Chris took at least a little credit for that. His apartment had a fully functioning kitchen, too, so between Allison and himself cooking things, and the Winchesters doing emergency store-runs as needed, there had been a third kitchen working toward feeding so many people on a holiday schedule.

Chris at one point, however, had suffered long enough listening to Dean and Allison’s efforts at one-upping each other. If he had fought a demon, she knew more about them after a five-second google search. If she could take out wolves with a bow, he could take out skinwalkers with a bowie knife. And _please-for-the-love-of-god_ don’t ask what Allison could do with a bowie knife. There was a definite limit to what a father could handle. So when there was enough food made to justify it, Chris just short of ran away with it back to Melissa’s house.

Intelligent, adult conversation, that was all he asked for. Just for a little while.

It wasn’t what he was fated to get, obviously.

Chris had his hands full getting to the door, brown paper bags hanging from each hand laden with fruit salad and green bean salad and a big tin can of sugar cookies that had to be saved from Sam if they were expected to ever reach Melissa’s pack. He had to juggle trying to reach for the handle to let himself in.

“You don’t knock either now?” came a voice from behind him. Eyes rolling until he could glare at the porch ceiling, Chris huffed out his annoyance and then tried to remind himself to be polite. Kyle McCall was keeping Mel out of things, but he had no problem putting the Stilinskis or Talia Hale’s neck on the chopping block trying to clear up the hunter business from the past few weeks. _Be nice. Be nice. It’s Christmas._

“Easier to open the door with your hands full than wait for someone to hear the knock,” said Chris. He looked back as the federal agent walked up onto the porch with him, carrying his own brown handled bag with colorfully wrapped presents inside.  He smelled like a bar, and it was hardly three in the afternoon.  It surprised him but Chris didn’t ask, hoping there was nothing in that bag that promised the man was staying for dinner. Things were going to be weird enough without that. As if on cue, the precariously balanced bag tipped toward the door and the plastic tupper of food clanked against the wood. Chris just barely caught it before it hit the ground.

Kyle looked about to say something but he and Chris were both startled by the door opening. Casey stood ready to help until he saw Kyle standing on the rainy steps just past Chris. The look on Kyle’s face was intimidating even to Chris, so he figured that for the man whose small family was at the federal agent’s mercy at the moment, it would be much worse.

“Uh... Hey, Kyle,” said Casey. “Merry Christmas...”

“Not really,” muttered Kyle. That was awkward and Chris was all too happy to shove the barely-not-dropped food bowl at him to keep Stilinski from doing something stupid, like shut the door in their faces.

“It’s still trying to snow. Can I get these inside?” Chris asked. Stilinski gladly took the excuse and backed off. Chris moved inside and toward the kitchen, leaving the sheriff on his own to figure out how to be a sheriff who _happened_ to date the ex-wife of a federal agent who just _happened_ to show up at their pack Christmas plans.

In the kitchen, Chris had no reservations about tattling to Mel that Kyle had invaded. She put down the potato-masher Talia had been trying to get her to abandon anyway and the pack alpha headed for her front hallway.

“Who is it?” asked Clint, looking confused.

“Her ex husband,” said Chris. He stayed ducked out of the direct line of sight of the hall but kept tabs on the conversation in the other room anyway. When he glanced back at Clint, he saw only the man’s movement toward the party.

“That asshole?” muttered Clint. Talia exchanged a worried glance with Chris before she followed after him. Chris sighed as Melissa’s impromptu visit with her ex became a pack matter.

They stepped into the living room to Mel telling her ex that his son was over at the Stilinski house. Before she could explain why, the fed gave a derisive snort and took what could all too easily be mistaken for a threatening step closer.

"So first you kick me out - at Christmas - to let some guy our son barely knows have my room, and now you've sent Scott off? For what? Some kind of swinger party?" He waved at the crowd suddenly gathered in the room, his annoyance clear. “God, I don’t even want to know what they’re all here for, do I? It’s freakin’ Christmas, Melissa.”

“Excuse the hell out of me?” The attitude from Kyle seemed to genuinely surprise Mel and it took Talia’s timely intervention to keep her from getting in her ex-husband’s face for the remark. Just as angry as Mel, Casey stared at Kyle, color rising as he shoved fists in his pockets; none of them would be spending the holiday in lock-up, Chris was pleased to note. Still, despite the sheriff's professional restraint, Chris angled enough to catch the man if Kyle provoked him again.

"Wow, you didn't bother to grow up at all," came Clint's interruption.

"Funny. You didn't either," remarked Kyle.

Clint was shorter than Kyle but it was an even match and Chris saw another fight brewing that promised a broken coffee table at least. He silently thanked anything that would listen that Derek and Scott weren't within shouting range.

"Why are you here, Kyle? Just leave," said Mel. "No fighting on Christmas."

"He's here to be an ass, like usual," said Clint.

"I'm here to check in on my family," said Kyle. "Even if they kicked me out for Christmas."

"Because you're an ass who shows up and insults a woman in her own home on Christmas," said Natasha. _Another country heard from_ , thought Chris as he looked to where the woman sidled up beside Clint.

"Guys," said Stilinski, tone firm but not far from his usual conversational. "Kyle's with the FBI. _He's_ working Talia's case. I think we should step back. And let the man leave."

“But he came to visit with his family,” said Natasha. “He should stay.”

“What?” blurted Chris. He hadn’t meant to get involved, but he hadn’t expected Natasha to start things and the woman’s tone said she was trying to.

“Is there a reason I shouldn’t?” asked Kyle. He aimed the challenge at Chris, and it only got worse when Peter Hale - looking completely wasted from a nap _or wrestling with bears or something, what the actual hell?_ \- showed up in the doorway to ask what was going on. Kyle looked from Mel to Peter, Casey, Chris and then Clint before back to his ex-wife.

“Are you kidding? Is this some kind of convention? I think as founding member I qualify for the ex-club,” said Kyle. “My invite got lost in the mail, right?”

“Okay, enough! Kyle,” said Stilinski. He was angry but better at dealing with it than the federal agent. “You’re done here for now. Go away, come back when you’re not looking for a fight, otherwise we’ll see you next week, I’ll see you at work. But _leave_ before I have to call something in.”

Kyle turned toward Casey at the threat. “We could take the conversation outside,” he said. Casey rolled his eyes. Then Natasha was in Kyle’s space and had taken the man down to the ground before anyone else realized what was happening. Melissa squeaked as her furniture narrowly avoided an unfortunate death. Natasha and Clint crouched on either side of Kyle as the man dazedly stared at the ceiling and tried to orient himself after Natasha had flipped him. Clint smacked him on the cheek to get his attention to focus.

“Ah, yep, there you are,” said Clint, his smile false cheer. “You’re fine.”

“That was-” began Kyle but Clint just nodded as Natasha lifted a finger to shush the dazed agent.

“That was a beautifully completed battery on a federal agent who desperately deserves a good old fashioned ass-kicking,” said Clint. He clucked sadly. “And we didn't even have to take it outside. But we don’t want to destroy Mel’s living room. And Casey still has to work with you later. We want you to leave now. So you’re fine, and, should you want to make some kind of federal case out of it, here’s our card.” The archer smugly tucked a small black and white card in Kyle’s shirt pocket. Natasha helped Kyle back up to his feet and straightened his tie. “You make sure you call our boss and let him know. He’ll be expecting your call.”

“And checking up on a few of your cases,” added Natasha with a shrug. “Yes, before you ask, we’ve got higher clearance than you.” She brushed at her shirt to smooth it out after the scuffle with Kyle. Clint stood beside her and smirked as Kyle stared at them, slackjawed. The agent checked the card in his pocket and the look on his face didn’t change. Clint pointed helpfully.

“That’s _Fury_. Like, really-angry-dude. Not soft-and-fuzzy Furry,” he said. “So when you call, use your words a _little_ more carefully around him than you do around your _ex_ -wife.”

Chris stared in open amazement as Kyle was just short of escorted to the door. Casey followed cautiously after them, Mel and Talia with him.

When Peter cleared his throat Chris looked up to find the wolf grinning sardonically. "I'm almost sorry about the damage to their car now."

Talia shot a glare over at her brother. “You’re not allowed to talk yet. Go back to bed.”

Chris raised an eyebrow at the interplay but Talia waved him off of it. “He was in a car accident earlier. He’s a little unbalanced.”

Peter snorted and padded to the kitchen. “That is not the word, dear sister.”

“No, actually,” said Chris. “I’m pretty sure it’s usually applicable in your case.”

Casey and Mel walked back from the door then, Mel looking pissed off and Casey looking annoyed with a new color of confusion. “What’d I miss?” he asked.

“Nothing,” said Talia, her tone annoyed and tired. “And if anyone asks me again, I’m killing my brother.”

“Not in my goddamn house,” returned Mel. From the kitchen, Peter looked on, affronted at the lack of support.

“That was so not _my_ fault,” he said. Chris and Casey just scoffed. Neither one of them knew what was going on, but they had a hard time believing it wasn’t Peter’s fault.

 

***

 

The sandwich and it's significant lack of cat and kibble went over well. And eventually, after about half a minute, so did Derek's once again physical removal of the laptop from Stiles' hands once the sandwich was gone. It didn't take long for Stiles to forget the technology actually existed, a state that continued for a good while after they were done because his shirt had buried it. He did good to recognize the ceiling above him, alternating between squinting at it and going wide eyed when he confirmed each time that 1) he really was awake and 2) he really was at Derek's loft, which meant that 3) Derek and he had really...

"Uhhh what was that?" Stiles blinked.

Derek shrugged into his pillow, his voice lazy and content and muffled. "I think third."

"Uhh..." Stiles looked over at Derek, a little surprised, still hung up on the half hour of _awesome_ that he was still trying to sort out from the awkward he brought to it. Derek smiled at him, half hidden by a pillow.

"Merry Christmas?" he said. Stiles swore he saw a blush and wanted to scream and start all over simultaneously. He gulped and stared back up at the ceiling. Stiles didn't know where to start anyway. He just smiled like a dope at the rafters.

"...Jesus Christ was a clever bastard," he decided. It almost sounded like Derek laughed and Stiles looked over at him, feeling smug and talented for so obviously wearing the man out their first shot out of the gate. Stiles could take credit for that. Still a virgin, but he was a damn happy one at the moment. He could keep up with a werewolf's stamina in at least some things.

"Werewolf!" Stiles sat bolt upright, brought out of his warm and fuzzy haze by the annoying persistence of reality. Derek squinted at him for it.

"What?" he asked, ye olde werewolf annoyance threatening to be drawn out. Stiles shook his head quickly and pounced on Derek to steal a kiss to settle him back down. Then he twisted around and fished off the side of the bed for the borrowed laptop.

"I was doing a thing," he reminded Derek. It didn't seem to register that he had just dug the laptop out from under a pile of his own _clothes_. He sat tangled up in covers on the bed in the middle of the open loft and set back to work researching.

"It was an important pack thing. Gotta finish," he said, muttering more to himself as his focus kicked in again. He felt Derek staring at him and scrunched his nose at the laptop screen. "Don't laugh at me, man. S'your fault."

"Not laughing," Derek promised. After a moment, he sat up himself and leaned in to Stiles' space, almost in danger of threatening distraction, but the teased kiss was too quick and the research project was safe. "Showering."

Stiles' jaw hung slack as the research project was almost mentally abandoned.

Then Derek was out and gone and Stiles' focus slipped back into gear. He was still at it when Derek got back, annoyingly fully clothed. That didn't stop him from stretching out across the bed again, this time on his side at Stiles' back to snoop at the screen. The teenager happily accepted the warm body to lean back against and decided out loud that Derek made a good chair.

They didn't move for almost an hour before Stiles' father called, demanding to know why Stiles wasn't Christmasing miserably with the rest of the pack. At which point Stiles stammered out a round of bullshit to keep from admitting to either 1) researching dryads to keep his dad from killing him for crashing a freaking Audi, or 2) doing it from Derek's bed. He thankfully was aware enough to be certain that his dad wanted to know neither of those things. After promising to be at Mel’s in a half hour dodged that bullet, Stiles started scrambling for his clothes.

"Shower," Derek warned him. Stiles blinked at him, distracted, then caught on and turned bright red.

"Werewolves," he realized. Derek nodded. Stiles wadded up his clothes and swore at the lack of efficient heating in the loft, stared sheepishly at the floor to ceiling windows that he hadn't noticed an hour and a half earlier, and stole a sheet to trip over on the way to the bathroom. Derek really was laughing at him that time, but Stiles noted fondly that it was buried in a pillow to at least make an effort. His pillow, actually - _holy hell he had a pillow!_ \- so maybe Derek wasn't laughing. There was no way Stiles would be able to stop smiling the rest of the day, Christmas with the pack or not.

 

***


	15. Chapter 15

The table was a hodgepodge maze, a card table tacked on to either end to make more surface space for food and seating space for people. Allison still looked over it rather proudly; Melissa didn’t have Lydia’s parents’ resources, or even anything close to Allison’s dad’s, but she had enough that they could fake it pretty well. So long as nobody noticed that the red and green tablecloths were actually clean bed linens, everything was perfectly festive and set out to sell the holiday.

It seemed important to Mel to have a holiday, and Allison kind of understood it. They had all had a bad year, one Allison still didn’t let herself think about in too much detail lately, and the effort she had put into something normal and non-supernatural for the past few days was a welcome distraction and actually fun. And the food looked and smelled completely worth it.

And then everyone sat down at the table, some pack and some strangers, and some pack who she wished were strangers, and the absurdity of it hit. They had managed to sit two of the most infamous hunters – men with criminal records that were only tentatively expunged – down at a table to dine with not only werewolves, but a banshee. And a sheriff, just to hit the trifecta. They sat across from each other, separated by piles of food and bright red, cheerful poinsettias and silver strands of tinsel. Mel had managed to do this twice, two nights in a row, and Allison and her father had helped. Amazingly, no one was dead.

About five minutes into the meal, Allison began to wonder if their luck would hold in that regard. The chatter was quiet, neighbors talking to neighbors mostly, but sometimes branching out as they reached for a food platter not directly in front of them. Chris and Clint had been happily talking about archery competitions, and Allison kept track of their conversation just because her name kept getting brought up. The sudden appearance of fruit salad at the other end of the table seemed to distract them off track and they didn’t pick it back up again. Natasha was talking lawyer stuff with Talia and Clint was left by himself with a mountain of sugar on his plate. He was apparently just as bad as Stiles and sugar.

"So has anyone decided what we are going to do about my car?" Clint asked Mel, not overly loud and intended for his friend rather than the whole table. The topic was odd enough though that it caught people’s attention. Allison had heard about the car issue from Lydia at the same time as she heard about the werewolves-on-the-lawn issue and she had been determined not to let her hunter-house guests find out about either one.

"What happened to your car?" asked Dean Winchester, predictably concerned about anything with four wheels and tangentially related to his Impala.

Stiles glared at Clint openly, because Stiles was backed by werewolves to counter the man's boasted weaponry skills. Clint glared back because he apparently wasn’t concerned about werewolves.

"It hit a wolf," he reported flatly.

"Wolf? Wait, wolf-wolf or..." asked Sam.

"Can we not-" Allison tried to interrupt the conversation but Dean looked to her and interrupted her efforts.

"I thought you said _your_ wolves didn’t-"

"They don't. It was handled. Stay out of it and eat your food, Dean," cut in Talia. Startled, Chris looked over at the unusual sharpness of the woman's tone.

"What happened?" he asked. Talia shook her head as Stiles sunk a little further in his chair, earning a confused look from the clueless sheriff.

"It was handled. No one was hurt," said Derek.

"Technically," added Cora with a sour look at her uncle. Peter blinked at her.

"It wasn't my fault. Are you implying it was my fault now?" he asked.

"It technically was," said Cora. "And not so technically, too."

"Blame the victim much?" returned Peter. Cora rolled her eyes.

"Come on-"

"Knock it off!" snapped Talia. The two looked prepared to keep at it, with Scott and Isaac joining in and Derek edging closer to the table and Stiles' space simultaneously.

"That's enough!" Melissa ordered, authoritative enough that she caught the three packs' attention and the table went quiet.

"Well…" observed Sherlock when the silence dragged on. Allison opened her mouth to try to steer things far away from Clint’s crashed Audi but she couldn’t think of anything. She looked to Lydia, but her friend just stared at her, eyes wide and mouth pressed tightly closed from her own loss of safe conversational topics. It said nothing good when the socialite couldn’t pinch-hit on being social.

"Do I need to know what's not actually being discussed right now?" asked the sheriff.

"No," said Stiles, Melissa and Talia at once. It was all the more suspicious for Clint's quiet, "Yes."

Casey looked to Melissa. She harrumphed, annoyed.

"I'll handle it," she told him. In the Melissa-version of an alpha-voice. The sheriff looked from Mel to Stiles, unconvinced.

"Pretty sure she's the only reason you're not grounded," he muttered to his son. "Just on principle."

"Ohmygawd." Stiles scowled at the ceiling. Looking away from her abused friend, Allison glanced across the table to see that her dad was watching her, like he knew somehow that she knew something he hadn’t yet been told about, and he disapproved. She flashed him her most innocent grin and tucked into her salad. She was so not getting involved in this one; Stiles was on his own with the crashing the Audi thing.

"Somebody want to pass me the mashed potatoes?" said Peter in his helpful-voice just to break the new quiet that hung over the meal.

 

***

 

The tension at the table didn't ease up in the slightest and John stared at the massive amounts of food going uneaten due to everyone's foul moods slowly strangling their appetites. He cleared his throat politely.

"Not to pry," John finally said, looking over at Melissa. "But I'm starting to wonder if perhaps whatever the thing you're handling should be handled sooner rather than later? Sherlock and I can leave if it's a family matter. Come back later when everyone is more themselves?"

The quiet, considerate suggestion quieted the growly table. It slowly seemed to sink in for everyone that they were all ruining their own Christmas. Which, really, that was what Christmas was for, in modern practice, just strangers sitting down at a table once a year and pretending they knew their distant family. John knew nothing about his nephew's family, but he was getting some colorful ideas at the dinner table.

"I don't even know what this is about," said Stilinski. "So it's not a family thing, and even if it were, you wouldn't have to leave."

"Right. Nobody has to leave," said Mel. "It's not something we can do anything about today anyway."

"I for one would love to know what _it_ is," said Casey.

"No, you wouldn't," said Clint, taking his cues from Mel. "I shouldn't have brought it up."

"It's a stupid car," complained Peter. "That's the big concern of the day. The Audi. Not the-"

"Peter, don't talk," said Talia, tense.

"Are you kidding? Hell yeah we're worried about the car, do you know how much that thing costs?" said Scott. Suspiciously silent on the whole thing, Stiles sunk a little lower in his chair as the others crept to the edges of theirs.

"Somebody told me once that a headlight bulb was like a hundred bucks," said Isaac, forever helpful. It got him glared at by Stiles, Peter, and Clint Barton; finally something the three could agree on.

"Cars are still replaceable," argued Peter. " _Other_ things _aren't_."

"Okay, nope. You guys need to take a step back before I really go get the big guns," said Dean calmly. He and his brother sat in their chairs ready to bolt. John stared in open amazement at the body language of the whole group. They were all seconds from a brawl. Dean waved a fork between Talia and Peter and then around the table.

"Now I don't know what this is about exactly, but if you folks are planning on ruining my vacation so spectacularly with it, I know exactly who to hit with what to fix the problem. I don't care how great the pies are, Talia, Little Brother doesn't make that face in polite company if he wants to avoid problems."

Amazingly, it was John's nephew who moved to stand up first against the threat, but his actual plan went unrealized as Derek dragged Stiles back into his chair with a scowl. It was still enough to set off a chorus of folding chairs scraping the floor around the tables. There were seventeen people crowded around a table extended with folding tables hidden under mismatched tablecloths and at least twice that many new skid marks across the McCall’s wood flooring.

Before they all had a chance to trip over themselves, Sherlock stood and collected the centerpieces from between food bowls. It was odd enough that everyone paused to watch. The big red poinsettias disappeared out into the porch one at a time. The teenagers and Hales slowly sank back into their seats, their individual moods slacking off.

By the time Sherlock returned to his seat, Stiles, his father and Melissa were staring around the table with their jaws dropped. Chris, Allison and the Winchesters all wore matching looks of suspicion, while Clint and Natasha were as completely unsurprised as Sherlock. John looked at his friend, openly confused.

"What the hell just happened?" he asked. Sherlock shrugged and shook his head. He returned to his meal cautiously.

"Poinsettias are lovely but they were obviously causing problems so I removed them," said Sherlock. "Did you know they are mildly poisonous to dogs and other animals?"

"Are you- you can't- just no," stammered Stiles. He stared at Derek. "Are you kidding me?"

Derek stared back, at a loss. He just shrugged, mirroring Talia's response to Chris' similar demand. Melissa looked to Casey, still more unspoken communication happening and threatening to drive John up a wall.

"Can we get back to Christmas now?" Mel finally asked the table.

"As it happens, now _I_ want to know-" John started to protest but Sherlock interrupted him.

"Allergic reaction, Dr. Watson. Everyone's fine. No anaphylactic shock, no brawls," the investigator reported. "If you haven't wrapped your mind around the problem by the time we leave, I can explain later."

 

***

 

It was still raining outside, with little clumps of snow still clinging for dear life to the car rooftops, but Derek wasn't surprised to see his mom on the front porch hiding in the cold from the crowded house. That had been his idea, too, but he thought twice when Talia turned her long stare his way. She had spent most of the day not talking to him, rather short tempered with him, and Derek couldn't tell why. He hoped it was the poinsettia problem and had all blown over; it was Christmas, damnit. Caught out, Derek stifled an oath and shoved his hands in his pockets and cautiously approached.

"Are you talking to me now or is this still a bad day for verbal communication?" he asked.

Talia smirked at him and shook her head. "I'm not sure how to verbally respond to something so redundant, honestly."

Derek gave a grim smile and sat beside her on the porch swing. "Words this time. I'll take it."

His mom sighed at him dramatically. "I'm beginning to worry about you, hun."

Derek found that darkly amusing and let out a quiet laugh. He shook his head. "Is that why you told Stiles about my birthday?"

"I told him because he I knew would celebrate it," said Talia. Her amusement sobered and she arched an eyebrow. "Which you apparently did."

Derek's eyes bugged and a wash of color hit his cheeks and neck. "That's what you're mad about?"

"Not mad," Talia said. "Disappointed."

That was going to leave a mark and Derek found a spot to stare at across the street rather than let his mom see it. Talia caught his chin with a finger to turn his face toward her again. "The fact that you don't know why doesn't really help."

He wasn't sure what he was supposed to say to that and shrugged. "I could guess."

"Or you could ask and clear it up. You know, the _adult_ way of handling things."

The thing was Derek wasn't sure he wanted to know why. He wanted to undo the disappointment so that the _why_ didn't matter. But he didn't want to undo anything else; Slight snag. So he was more or less stuck with the _why_.

"Okay. What did I do?" he asked.

"More like what you didn't do," said Talia. "It's been a busy few weeks, I understand. But Casey's not been let in the loop on how busy."

"That's between him and Sti-"

"Not necessarily," Talia replied. "I'm not a terrible romantic, Derek. And I'm really not that nosy. I'm the first to admit I have no right to be. But this? It's a matter of respect for Stiles' family. He has a small one, just him and his dad. You have inserted yourself in that space. Alpha or not, you still should give the man his right to sign off on it. Instead you sneak. And you don't sneak very well around wolves."

"Stiles has his reasons."

"And I'm allowed to be disappointed by them," said Talia with a small lift of her shoulder. "Or your backing down to them. Teaching him to sneak and hide like he's doing something wrong."

Derek considered it, frowning. He had done that before. Snuck around on his family, hid because someone told him it was better to stay quiet, to keep secrets. Kate had told him it was for his own good. The difference was that Stiles probably really was worried about Derek getting in trouble; Stiles worried about _everything_ , lately with a specialized focus on everything-Derek.

"I think the sheriff knows now," said Derek finally. At his mom's questioning look, he shrugged and winced at the lawn. "Stiles and I fell asleep on the couch this morning. And Sherlock started asking about it last night, so there's no way..."

"I whole-heartedly suggest you clear it up."

"Yeah, caught the memo."

"I've noticed Stiles gets easily attached. Protective," said Talia. At Derek's amused nod, she added, "His father is likely where he got that habit from. He's allowed you as alpha. He's trusted you so far. Get it settled. Stop sneaking because you aren't fooling anyone with a nose.  And I don't like lying to Casey and Mel."

"I feel like I should remind you, Stiles rammed an Audi into Peter a few hours ago," said Derek, amused by the surreal conversation.  "The sheriff doesn't know about his kid's growing _criminal record_."

The logic was dismissed with a wave of Talia's hand. "Peter healed up. The car has to be handled carefully because it has a werewolf-shaped dent in the hood, not a tree. Don't change the subject."

"I'm not, just pointing out, that's who we're talking about. _He_ did that. He's capable of making his own decisions," said Derek.

Talia nodded.  "And he's lucky I like him better than Peter right now because that was not his most intelligent decision."

Derek arched an eyebrow at her and she shrugged.

"I'm a little attached to the pup," she said, smug. "Have been since you two pissed off Hutch. So I'm _particular_ about my disappointment."

Not surprised, slightly amused, and infinitely exhausted, Derek just shook his head.

 

***

 

After dinner had settled, there was a line of teenagers in the kitchen, all on cleanup duty. The way Mel looked between Peter and Stiles when she suggested it, Derek had his suspicions that the whole group was roped into it because it was the only way she could get away with grounding Stiles without tattling on him to his-father-the-sheriff. Derek appointed himself supervisor because his mom had already been glaring at him most of the night and he didn’t want to add to the problems by hanging around hunters more than he was forced to. It was better than Cora’s job for the evening, which was to babysit their uncle. She didn’t have her brother’s history with hunters or their uncle either one and could be a surly teenager on the couch ignoring the adults without starting a fight with any of them.

“I can’t believe I spent all afternoon digging up everything I could freaking find on _tree fairies_ , and this whole time it was the stupid plants,” complained Stiles. He had sink duty. Apparently the wolves pre-washed their plates while everybody else liked to leave food on them and Stiles had started to take the pattern personally.

“I didn’t know it would cause problems,” said Lydia, “Or I certainly wouldn’t have tried to offer a truce with one. That failed _fantastically_.”

“We noticed,” said Allison as she put away the plate Lydia had just dried. Not far away, Scott and Isaac were just barely avoiding a food fight as they were tasked with putting away leftovers.

“I’m okay with it being the stupid plant though,” said Scott. “We can toss those in the trash and forget about it. Get back to Christmas break and not going crazy.”

“That would be nice,” agreed Isaac. Derek snorted as Stiles glared off over his shoulder at them.

“And the party could have turned out so much worse last night,” said Lydia. “I think I can forgive Scott for his terrible singing interrupting everything. If he hadn’t and the rest of you had stayed around the plants longer, I could have had three pissed off werewolves interrupting everything instead. That would have been… Well, I just don’t want to think about it. Absolute social suicide.”

The miserable hypothetical was met with a round of agreement, but Derek hardly noticed it. He was stuck on another hypothetical entirely. The one that wondered what-if he had stood around the plant at the loft longer than just to make a couple of sandwiches. It was just the two of them up in the loft that afternoon and Derek could have hurt Stiles, given how close to a brawl the wolves had been at the dinner table. On the heels of that was the what-if the plant hadn’t been there at all and that was almost the worst; Derek couldn’t know if he would have taken the laptop from Stiles and pushed for attention without that plant messing with his head. It was just a different kind of glamour, a different loss of control, so what was real and what was… an _allergic reaction_?

“I’ll be back later,” said Derek suddenly. “Somebody tell Mom I took the car.”

“What? Why?” Stiles looked back at him, half a step away from the sink to go with him. Derek waved him off.

“I’m going to go get the plant out of the apartment,” he said. Stiles seemed to catch on and a little color faded from the expressive features. Lydia didn’t notice, too busy passing off another dish down the production line.

“God yes,” she said, approving. “Before Peter gets anywhere near it again. I just… I am so sorry about that. Really.”

Stiles took the unexpected apology from Lydia like a bucket of ice over the head and Derek left the room before he tried to talk his way into going with him. There was no way they were testing any poinsettia theories to settle the question marks. Derek would sort it out for himself eventually without anybody around who could get hurt by a stupid plant.

 

***

When his cell phone rang, Clint winced and excused himself from the rather borderline violent game of modified Uno taking place in the McCall living room. Tasha seemed to be enjoying herself, though, a smile on her face as she somehow dove faster than a werewolf for a new card. They made up the modified rules as they went along and there was a constant noise as somebody questioned a call. Really, it was an excuse to annoy each other without resulting in bloodshed and alliances had been forming. Things were just getting interesting. But there was no way Clint could ignore a call from their boss.

Out on the porch, he took a deep breath of cold air and finally answered it. “Sir?”

“What the hell are you doing, Barton?”

“Uh. Enjoying my Christmas vacation,” Clint reported dutifully. “Which you _told_ me to do. I’m making sure it happens. It’s been-”

“I did _not_ tell you to take Stark’s car,” came the irritated reply. “And I definitely didn’t tell you to crash it. What the hell did you even crash it into? The onboard computers can’t make jackshit of the damage...”

Clint sighed and scrunched his face up, squinted out at the back yard. “Uh. Long story, sir. But I was going to call you about that. And one _other_ thing.”

“Other thing? Barton, I didn’t want to spend _Christmas_ middle-manning a car-theft.”

“Tasha flattened a fed,” admitted Clint. “And I smacked him around a little and gave him your card.”

“Are you drunk?” The question was equal parts annoyed and alarmed. “My _card_?”

“In case he wanted to press charges. Which he might. If he remembers it in the morning,” Clint said. “He smelled like he had already tossed back a few and that was at hardly three...”

“So you weren’t drunk, you were fighting with a drunk,” said Fury. He did not sound amused by the sarcastic clarification. “Am I supposed to be _proud_?”

“He wasn’t drunk then, just started the party early. Then he pissed off Tasha. She shut him up. And he needed shutting up.” The defense was genuine, but it was followed by an equally genuine, however hasty, “Sir.”

A very reluctant and long suffering Fury asked for scant details and Clint gave him the basics. His boss promised to look into it if the idiot made the phone call or any other noise about the incident.

“But,” Fury warned him firmly, “I’m getting the car taken care of. Tomorrow. And you two are arranging your own way home.”

Clint nodded even though Fury couldn’t see him. Just in case. “Yessir.”

 

***

 

It was a meager offering, but it still counted as a gift-exchange for the holiday. The kitchen was cleaned, the dining room spare tables dismantled, and the day was slowly dragging on the group, but they crowded into the McCall’s living room and around the tree. Scott played Santa and Isaac and Stiles traded carols back and forth to taunt him. Anyone under the age of twenty-five was relegated to seats on the floor, and the adults fought for territory on furniture. Melissa decided not to fight anyone for her own couch-cushions and just took a seat on Casey’s lap. He didn’t complain, and Clint only gave them the side-eye for a moment before Scott hung a colorfully wrapped gift in front of his suddenly surprised face. The gift-giving social hour became gradually more comfortable after that. They had snow on Christmas for the first time in many years and the supernatural quiet it caused outside was drowned out by the chatter and rustle of paper inside.

“Okay. So I get that the plant made Peter go a little crazier than usual,” said Casey. He kept quiet, his chin tucked to Melissa’s shoulder. She turned enough to look at him, less than settled with the topic herself.

“Right,” said Mel. “Lydia feels terrible about it, I feel terrible about it, Allison put the plants on the table so she feels terrible about it…”

“Yeah, well, I bought them, so I guess we’re all culpable for that one,” Casey shook his head and hugged Mel a little closer protectively.

“But there’s more to it here.”

Mel scrunched her nose and looked over at him, eyes narrowed. “What then?”

Casey frowned at her. He glanced over at his brother-in-law safely across the room, Sherlock standing near him poking a finger at the dust on the fireplace mantle. Then Casey sat up a little taller, spoke in a whisper at Melissa’s ear.

“If Peter was all… wolfed out? How did a big monster like that sneak into your house under everyone’s noses to write a message in sugar on the kitchen counter?”

Mel tensed and Casey pressed a kiss to her forehead. “Sorry,” he muttered. “It’s just maybe this one still bears thinking on?”

There was no argument to that _understatement_ and Casey let her loose just enough to help her reach for the cell phone on the end table. Mel sent off a text message to Talia and Chris both, despite the fact that the both of them sat in the same room with her.

“It’s been quiet so far tonight,” reasoned Melissa aloud, still quiet, as she handed Casey the phone to put away again. “And maybe it’s just sheer determination on my part, which, if it is, then great because that means we get at least another twelve hours before I’ll give up my stranglehold on the Christmas spirit. But yeah, it should be thought on. And the more heads thinking on it, the better.”

“Yep,” agreed Casey. He huffed as he glanced around the room again. “You want to know the _really_ annoying part in all this?”

“Hmm?”

“After watching the guy work, I’m pretty sure a certain annoying Brit would have it all figured out inside of five minutes if we took it to him. But I don’t… I don’t know, I don’t think he or John either one would believe a word of it. And after everything else, I don’t want the guy starting up some kind of intercontinental custody battle for his sister’s kid because his brother-in-law is almost-literally _barking_.”

Mel hid a laugh. “Aside from the fact that Stiles is too old, I’m pretty sure Sherlock’s gotten a few things figured out already. John can’t be far behind.”

“I said it was annoying,” said Casey, “I didn’t say it made any sense.”

 

***

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For those of you who need the warning... this is chapter 15 out of 25... So at this point, it's now all the beta's fault when stuff doesn't get posted on time. ;c)


	16. Chapter 16

-December 26th-

“Pretty sure you’ve gone mad on this one, Sherlock,” said John, shaking his head with casual determination as he sat down to the Stilinski breakfast table with a cup of tea. Sherlock sat at the table with his laptop out in front of him, his eyes skimming over archival microfiche he had been emailed over night from some library back home – he wouldn’t tell John which one – and flicking from screen to screen.

“I can’t exactly argue your logic, John, but I am most assuredly not mad,” he replied calmly.

“But they don’t even _exist_ ,” said John. Just in case though, he lowered his voice and the insistence came out a complained hiss. His nephew was asleep stretched out on the couch for the second morning in a row with a young man Sherlock was implying heavily could be one of an entire pack of werewolves of all goddamn things and that just wasn’t something a man started around lightly. The damned thing was that John knew Sherlock too well to believe he would make it up, but he knew _reality_ too well to believe werewolves were anything other than the product of Hollywood special effects and marketing teams.

He looked up to see Sherlock staring at him over the laptop screen. John stared back. “What?”

“I’m- _what_? You’re a _doctor_ , John,” said Sherlock. John rolled his eyes at the unnecessary reminder.

“Yes, which is exactly why I can positively say that the human body is not capable of the physical requirements necessary to meet the qualifications of _werewolf_ ,” replied John. Sherlock nodded, one eyebrow lifted in his particular brand of judgment because John was obviously missing something.

“Your profession rose from the ashes of witches burned at stakes and drowned in rivers. Some still swear an oath to a Greek god and think that’s enough to keep them honestly invested in their life choice of helping others prolong death. Fiction _becomes_ fact and you’ve built a career and a life on the product of it,” Sherlock said patiently. “So you would insist now, after millennia of trial and error and deadly misconceptions, that there is _nothing_ the human body is perhaps – just possibly – capable of that modern science hasn’t already discovered and publicly claimed as fact?”

John blinked at the usually astute investigator and struggled to make the logic fit his world-view because he couldn’t argue it. “Well…”  
That seemed to be enough and Sherlock nodded. His attention returned to the laptop. “And aside from that. When have you ever known me to be wrong?”

Sherlock almost had him believing it until that last smug remark made John want to reject the idea just on principle. He rolled his eyes and glared up at the ceiling. “Oh my god. You arrogant ass.”

“Because yet again I am right,” agreed Sherlock with a casual shrug of his shoulders. “Given that your nephew is dating a supernatural human, it might behoove you to do some reading, John. Family gatherings could be awkward without it, dangerously so.” Sherlock poked idly at his own canine teeth curiously as he stared at the laptop screen. John scrunched his nose and scowled at his friend for it. Still, his mind was working as he sipped at his tea in quiet.

“Do you think Casey knows?” he finally asked. Sherlock snorted and very resolutely did not answer that question.

 

***

 

The two houseguests didn’t dampen the frenetic energy of the McCall household that morning. Clint and Natasha weren’t Kyle, so Scott was practically bouncing between food cupboards in search of breakfast. Isaac trailed him, rambling about something, and Casey just shook his head and tried to stay out of their way as he fought the abused coffee maker. He had to get back to work and the little things just seemed to stack up to stall it. He knew Kyle was going to be a bitch to deal with the day after Christmas when he very noticeably hadn’t been invited to the disaster of a pack dinner. (Well, it wasn’t exactly a _disaster_ ; no one had been killed, and that was a close thing, so it was ultimately a _success_.) There was just no way Casey was leaving the house without coffee.

“Police brutality could start a revolt of the kitchen appliances,” said Clint as the man walked up to investigate what Casey was swearing at. The sheriff huffed and shook his head.

“It’s the carafe. I should just buy her a new one,” muttered Casey, distracted and thoughtful. “You gotta… the catch on the lid is fussy to start it going.”

Clint offered to give it a go but Casey determinedly stuck to his guns and triumphed. A moment later, the dark brew started its satisfying drip into the pot. Finally.

“Sometimes a little brute force is all that’s needed, badge notwithstanding,” said Casey. Clint nodded his approval and the two men waited on the brew without moving away from the pot. It was either water cooler hour or there was going to be a contest for who got the first mug, Casey couldn’t figure out which, but instinct said the other man was after something.

“So did Mel finally tell you what that stuff at dinner was about last night?” Clint asked, cautious. The sheriff nodded, grimaced.

“Yeah. She said Peter did a number on your car. I’m… I’m not going to lie, but I have absolutely no idea what to do with that. I’m not sure _a werewolf fell on it_ will go over well with your insurance company,” he said with a shake of his head. Clint winced.

“So you know about the werewolves,” he said. At Casey’s nod, the man narrowed his eyes at him. “Are you one of them?”  
Casey let out a short laugh at the blunt question and shook his head. “Just stuck with them,” he said, somewhere between resigned and amazed. He looked over at Clint. “If it’s Melissa you’re worried about, don’t be. She has Chris and me, and wolf or not, Scott would never let anything happen to her.”

“Never say never,” muttered Clint. He pulled a face and shook his head. “I thought for sure this would be a quiet Christmas.”

“Nope,” said Casey, shaking his head. “Beacon Hills is small, sure. But it doesn’t do _quiet_ very well anymore.”

Clint huffed at that. “From what I remember of the last time I was here, I’m not sure it ever did.”

 

***

 

By nine AM, Casey and John had both had enough of their respective partners in crime-busting and decided it was a good time for a coffee break. A coffee break that took them to the cafe across town. Overkill, but Watson was willing to make the sacrifice. They were in another country, Sherlock had no enemies to target him at a sheriff's station in America, and it completely defeated every purpose if John let the man goad him into strangling him in front of federal agents. So he went to fetch coffee for them all with his brother-in-law. They took a breather. Always a good plan.

Until they returned to an argument between Sherlock and an (albeit annoying) federal agent.

"You are an idiot," Sherlock declared as John followed Casey into the small work room. The Sheriff and John stopped dead, each holding two hot drinks that they weren't allowed to drop on the floor despite their shock at the unprofessional display. Sherlock carried on with hardly more than a glance at them. He took Kyle's map down from the white board. "Stop thinking. Let me show you how this happened."

Kyle looked like he wanted to throw something. "But I was _there_."

"Yes and the fact remains that _you_ are an idiot."

"Coffee, Kyle?" Sheriff Stilinski interrupted their argument by walking between the two men and breaking their mutual glaring. He held the coffee out expectantly, forcing the agent to pay attention to him. Kyle took the coffee, annoyed, and turned to pace away.

"Now how about we remember we're adults and we're on the same side here?" said the sheriff in his best Sheriff-voice.

"I know my job, Stilinski. I'm not an idiot."

"No, Kyle, I think for the sake of argument we'll just go with the idiot theory and move on?" Stilinski replied. "Have you checked this man's track record? I think we could use the help connecting the dots here... So stop antagonizing Mr. Holmes and let's see what he has to say."

John nearly choked on his own coffee and had to look over at the door to avoid further offending the federal agent or encouraging Sherlock. This was better than at home; McCall wasn't as likely to arrest them out of frustration as anyone who knew Sherlock back in London.

 

***

 

The twins hadn't been around much since Mel got out of the hospital. It wasn't that they weren't welcome, or that they weren't Derek’s pack. But Lydia and Danny were the only ones who really sought them out and dragged them in. Everyone knew they had helped save Derek and Stiles in Tahoe, and even Isaac owed them for keeping the hunters off his back a week later. It was more that they just didn't fit in. There was baggage no one knew what to do with. Derek didn't seek anyone out, Stiles pinged between Scott and Derek and half the county sheriff's office, and Scott had no reason to try approaching the twins. And Ethan and Aiden kept to themselves.

Allison reasoned that her father had at least a few things right about wolves from the start, and a big one was that power corrupts everything, like a poison. As alphas, Ethan and Aiden had been at the top of the food chain, and they were used to getting what they wanted or being free to take it. Power. But that wasn't how Scott or Derek ran things, and it definitely wasn't how Mel worked. The twins had to learn to play second string, how to interact and maybe care about things that weren't their usual. They tried, Allison gave them points for that, but it was still a lot of work and not a lot of payoff. They were enforcers, and there wasn't much to enforce since they helped bring down Hutch. They didn't appear to be big on the holiday spirit of things either, blatantly refused to go to the party, but that might have been because of the theme.

So it was surprising to find the pair of wolves camped out in the woods behind Lydia's house the day after Christmas. Four legged, dog-shaped, wolf sentinels. One of them stepped out of the trees as Allison got out of her car, curious and cautious, but he turned his back on her as she shut the door. She waved awkwardly and, mindful of the pack's wolves' strange behavior lately, was quickly at the door. Lydia's mom let her in and told her Lydia hadn't left her room all morning. It was putting a cramp on her plans to drive to Sacramento for the big box stores' After Christmas sales, but if Lydia didn't go then Allison was still welcome to come along. Allison bowed out of the invite and set off on her own to find her friend. When Allison got up there, Lydia stood in front of the window, staring out at the trees beyond her back yard.

"Lydia?" asked Allison, concerned by the lack of greeting. She was standing by her friend before Lydia even glanced at her. Following her gaze, Allison saw only the usual view.

"What is it?" She asked. Lydia still stared, her eyes wide and round and intent on one spot.

"One of the trees... I mean, I know what my own backyard looks like," Lydia said quietly. "But I've been watching it all morning."

"What?"

"One of the trees... It moved."

 

***


	17. Chapter 17

"So? It's a tree. We have _wolves_. Not a _chipper_. You should call the yard service about that one."

"Stiles!" The conversation was not going anywhere near how Allison had expected it to, and it really wasn’t useful. To anyone. At all. It was a completely wasted phone call. “If I _shoot_ you, one of our wolves can _bite_ you. But you’ll notice for this I didn’t call one of the wolves so _don’t_ make me _shoot_ you.”

"I'm thinking! Gimme a minute! Jeeeze!" Allison could hear the person on the other end of the line shake their head. It was like his brain rattled. She balked as he started rambling excuses. "Look, I have no way to get out there. I haven't even figured out what to do about this guy yet-"

Allison frowned at the sudden unexpected, if not completely creepy info-drop. "What guy-"

"The tree guy,” said Stiles. “The dryad. Okay, so technically it’s not a guy..."

"Dryad?" asked Allison. Stiles sounded stressed and Allison began to rethink her plan that he would know more than Scott or Derek on the topic of moving trees in the backyard. After the tense Christmas dinner, though, her dad would kill her if she had to call him for anything he didn’t already know about.

"Yeah, bestiary-it. Dryad. Tree guardian. Tree fairy. But I think maybe the better idea is to cut the power to the house so the Martins go book another hotel for awhile-"

That was absolutely out of the question and Allison shook her head adamantly. "I am not playing with power lines. In the _rain_."

Stiles sighed. "Yeeeaahh, not a great idea is it?"

"Worst ever," confirmed Allison.

"So I'll... Uh. Scott. I'll go ask Scott. You guys should still make like the trees and _leave_."

It wasn’t a welcome solution, mostly because Allison had already tried to get Lydia to just walk away from the window a dozen times already. Her friend hadn’t budged. "Lydia's afraid if she blinks the tree will attack."

The gasped, choking sound on the other end of the cell phone connection turned out to be Stiles having one of his fits of frustration. The kind where he looked like he’d blow a gasket trying to keep from strangling whoever he was dealing with. It was somehow on par that Lydia would bring that out of him now. "Are you kidding me! Ohmyg- how does she have time for British sci-fi-"

Allison didn’t follow. "What?"

"Nothing. Just. Ohmygod. Bye."

The connection clicked dead and Allison blinked at her phone. That was a bust. She perched on the edge of Lydia’s bed and looked over at her friend, worried.

 

***

 

Dean glanced over when Sam interrupted the channel-surfing to check his ringing cell phone. He didn't want to sacrifice TV time to some spam call and would fight his brother for the remote if he had to. Then Dean recognized the name that popped up on the caller ID and he went for the phone instead. Sam snapped at him and there was a gangly flail of arms and Dean escaped into the corner of his chair with the phone by holding his brother back with his boots.

"Winchester Taxi Service is currently closed for the holidays, please hang up and call someone who cares," said Dean into the phone, smug.

"I have a hypothetical for the dispatcher," came the annoyed voice of Stiles Stilinski.

Dean sighed. "What then?"

"Not you. The one who isn't a bigoted idiot."

Sam snatched the phone out of Dean's hand just before his brother could hang up. Dean glared at him for it and snatched it back long enough to put it on speakerphone. Satisfied with the middle-ground, Sam ignored Dean’s annoyance to find out what was going on that would make Stiles call them for help again. They were on vacation, damnit.

"I don't want to know what you just said to my brother, do I?" Sam asked the phone.

"Nothing you'd be surprised by," said the Stilinski kid. "But I also told him I've got a hypothetical to run by you. Just a what-if, not important really, but..."

"So shoot," said Sam.

Dean made a face. "Can I shoot _him_?"

Sam ignored him and Stiles probably only pretended not to hear.

"So the other night. You said fairies were real things. Which makes sense, I guess, because banshees are fairies and banshees are real things and-"

Sam blinked. "Wait, you guys have crossed banshees?"

"So many times," said Stiles. "Anyway. So fairies are real. So fairies who live in trees are real."

"Hamadryads," said Sam, nodding. The kid had his questions but it sounded like he was still thinking them over as he rambled them out.

"And fairies who protect trees are real and they like to take revenge because they're, like, tricksters..."

"There are like a dozen different varieties of dryads, Stiles. What are you-"

"What do you do if you piss off a fairy who protects an oak tree but isn't, like, tied to it? Like, if they can leave the tree and cause fairy-trouble away from the tree?" There was a hesitation and then Stiles added, "Or what-if they can make the tree, uh, move around on the chessboard?"

By then Sam and Dean were both frowning at the hypothetical conversation in confusion.

"You find something sharp and heavy and iron and you stake the little Tinkerbell bastard," said Dean, helpfully. Sam could hear the teenager on the other end of the line roll his eyes.

"Yeah, sure, and have a whole forest of Tinkerbell bastards attack to take revenge," Stiles said.

Dean paused and considered. "Yeah, that would be bad." He bared his teeth and chomped. "Sharp teeth trump fire pokers."

Not yet certain on the details of the suggestion, Sam started putting things together in what he probably figured was the next most logical order. He thought it over a moment before speaking up. "So you make peace. You apologize."

"You aren't serious." Stiles’ observation was accentuated perfectly by the dubious expression on Dean’s face. His little brother had obviously gotten into the Argent’s booze stock and not thought to share. Rather than let Dean talk them out of a bad idea, Sam ignored him and raised an eyebrow at the phone to talk to Stiles instead.

"Yes, I am serious,” said Sam. “In this hypothetical situation of pissing off a Tinkerbell tree bastard with a lot of friends, you either apologize or you run like hell and never come back."

"Kid?" asked Dean. He may or may not have been worried about the answering silence from Stiles. "What did you do?"

"I didn't. I'm not sure who-" There was another silence. And then... "Oh. Crap."

"What?" asked Dean.

"Uh. Mistletoe. That's like... important, right? Overlooked and powerful and..."

"And grows on trees. And would be under the protection of a dryad," said Sam. "And you said oak tree? Oak mistletoe is considered sacred and rare and-"

"Crapcrapcrap. Holy crap."

"You are really lousy at hypothetical problems, kid," said Dean. "What's going on?"

"Uh. Right now? I gotta figure out how to apologize to an oak dryad. Maybe a whole forest of them, I'm not sure yet."

"What!" yelped Dean.

"Busy. Bye..."

Dean stared at Sam as the line clicked dead.

"Are you freaking kidding me?" he asked. Sam nodded and sighed.

"I told you Beacon Hills was a bad idea."

Dean glared at his little brother. Then, determined not to get involved, he stole the tv remote back. And Sam's phone just to keep the guy from getting any heroic ideas.

"We're on vacation."

 

***

 

The nice, peaceful, house-guest-and-parent-free day after Christmas was slowly disappearing on Stiles. He could see the chill plans to do nothing but hang out with his friends and pack just turn into wispy gray smoke, form into the shape of trees, and _poof!_ , drift away. He looked up from his pacing and saw three werewolves staring at him intently, confused and concerned. Stiles shoved his phone in a pocket so he wouldn’t throw it.

"Yeah, so we have a problem," he said, reluctant.

"What?" asked Derek. Stiles scrubbed his hands in his hair and glared at the ceiling. Then he looked down at them and sighed.

"Lydia kind of used Scott to declare war on a dryad. And now there’s trees _moving around_ in her backyard and she told Allison that she won't leave her house so _you_ have to go be an alpha and make her leave." He pointed from Derek to end up on Scott. "And _you_ have to help me figure out how to make the dryad equivalent of a white flag."

Scott went bug-eyed. "What!"

Stiles stared back at his friend, waved a hand in the general direction of Lydia’s house, somewhere due east. "You think I'd make this up?"

"Well it's not the strangest thing you've ever said, let's be honest," said Isaac with a shrug. Stiles glared at him and tried to remember why he had been invited to their day-off from the holidays.

"Seriously, Isaac? _This_ close to doping your kibble," he said. Stiles held his hand up, thumb and forefinger hardly an inch apart in illustration. Derek rolled his eyes as he stood up from the couch but Isaac was more offended. Scott jumped up with him as a reality-check to the beta’s plans of defending his wolfly honor.

"Hey!" The protest went pretty much ignored. Stiles waved his arms to sweep people toward the exits.

"It's _Lydia_! Would people start moving already?"

"Okay, fine. But..." Derek looked confused and he always got cranky when that face happened. And there was a weight to the reluctant words that made Stiles think it wasn't just confusion. He shrugged it off because they were working with deadlines on more life-threatening things than Derek catching up to how Stiles’ brain worked.

"Yeah, talk, later, got it," Stiles grumbled. Derek, because he was awesome, trusted him and left the room, and a moment later the house, to go track down Lydia. That left Stiles with his best friend and Isaac, because they were less-awesome and didn’t believe he could possibly have stumbled onto the right idea. For the millionth time ever.

"I didn't declare war on the triad!" Scott’s protest only proved that he never listened and Stiles just shook his head.

"Dryad,” said Stiles, with more careful enunciation. “But I'm glad you paid attention when I made you watch those John Woo movies when we were kids. Next we work on _Star Wars_."

It still got through and Scott frowned, thinking it over. "Dryad?"

Stiles sighed and nodded. He crossed his arms and made himself stop fidgeting about it. "Tree fairies. You stole their mistletoe when we were setting up for the party. And, given the trees I saw at Lydia’s the other night, you probably stole it from an oak, which happens to be kinda sacred to them. So please tell me you know what an oak looks like and you didn't climb one for Lydia?"

The look on Scott’s face said plenty. It said that he _did_ know what an oak tree looked like and he _did_ climb one for Lydia. Scott stared at Stiles like a puppy who had just been caught digging in the trash. "Crap."

"Oh, just wait. It gets better,” promised Stiles, resigned. He held up a hand to tick off the strikes against them on his fingers. “So dryads are _tree_ fae. Lydia's a banshee. Banshee’s are fae, just like the dryads, but they’re... the red-headed, bad-omen stepchildren of the whole fae-family. Most fae don’t like death so they don’t like banshees.” Stiles let that sink in a moment, scrunched his face and tried for the millionth time to wrap his mind around the fact that he hung out with _werewolves_ and _fairies_ for best friends. His life was just weird. He held back a frustrated sigh and shrugged.

“So she told you to go climb a tree and you did it. And she's _Lydia_ , so I'll bet my dad's next paycheck she stood right there by the tree while you pulled down the sacred oak mistletoe. _Banshee_ ordering _werewolfee_ around from the ground beside an oak tree?"

"Shit." Again, the wide-eyed, worried expression on Scott’s face told Stiles he was right. He nodded.

"Uh huh. So you took something sacred from them and then we all _trounced_ it at a party. Banshee declared _war_. On the entire freakin' Beacon Hills Preserve," said Stiles. “Sam and Dean said then it was fairies, and there’s trees just everywhere in everything... That’s why the pranks at the end of the party. Because let’s not even start on everything we did _wrong_ with the mistletoe at the party.”

“And that’s why the messages were left at _our_ house the night of the party,” said Scott.

“And why somebody sicced Peter on Lydia,” said Isaac. “He got a faerie-boost.”

That caught their attention and Stiles looked at Isaac, surprised despite himself that the annoying beta wasn’t an idiot. Scott’s worried expression traded out for his alpha-means-business face and he looked from Stiles to the beta standing at his shoulder.  
"Isaac..."

Isaac was already nodding. The two were on their own wavelength that Stiles would never _not_ be secretly jealous of.

"I'm gonna go help Derek and Allison," said Isaac.

When the three of them got their coats and headed outside, Isaac took off on Scott's bike while Scott steered Stiles toward his mom's car.

"I don't even know where I'm goi-"

"Natural foods store," said Stiles automatically. Scott blinked at him, confused all over again.

"What? Why?" he asked.

"For natural foods?" said Stiles. “Unless you want to stick with the whole _war_ theme and just see how long it takes a bunch of tree fae to kill us all. In that case we just go find a bunch of iron to arm ourselves with. What I read said that dryads tend to band together, and there’s half a dozen different varieties out there on top of that. These guys get revenged by the _gods themselves_ , okay? They come with heavy artillery. So I’m not sure I want to risk an entire _forest_ of potential dryad warriors.”

Scott stopped at the car door but didn’t get in. "Where did you learn about this stuff?"

Stiles looked over at Scott like the guy had lost his mind. "The internet? Like always? And Deaton’s out of town for Christmas, so I just called Sam..."

"Yeah but when? I haven't seen you with a computer once for the last three days."

"I already knew about the banshee- you mean the faerie stuff?” asked Stiles. He pulled a face, eyebrow raised. “I used Derek's yesterday, I told you where I was going. Even your _mom_ told me not to go home or my dad'd kill me if someone spilled about the car... Ringing bells?"

"But you were gone for like _three_ hours."

"I had just wrecked an _Audi_. I was very _focused_." Stiles’ expression was a little too determined, and Scott swore he heard a lie. He narrowed his eyes at his friend.

“Focused,” he repeated. "On tree fairies?"

Stiles pointed over the hood of the car at him. " _You_ started a freaking war with trees and you're amazed I know how to use the internet. _Come on_ , Scott."

 

***

 

Despite the odd weather of the past week, or maybe because of it, Talia was tired of being home-bound. Her new condo was barely furnished so it wasn’t very interesting there, and they had been shut up at Melissa’s place for days trying in vain to keep the nurse from pushing her injured shoulder. The McCall house was just crowded, between their two planned house guests and then Stiles inviting himself and Derek over for a movie day. So the four adults yielded their TV rights and braved the after-Christmas traffic to find whatever trouble they found entertaining. And they were plenty entertained. Clint had the undivided attention of three women, and when the man wasn’t blushing like a gentleman, he was flirting like a cad.

The excuse for being out and about was After Christmas sales. It ended up as a walk through the crowded mall looking for stuff to throw at Talia’s apartment to make it look less like an empty, echoing attic and more like a home. Anything that looked like furniture or was decorative or functional, no matter how odd, Clint was quick to point out to the point of annoyance. Natasha was quicker to correct him, and Talia noted, she caved to the game he was playing surprisingly quickly. When the pair wandered off track wondering how many ways a table runner could be used to kill an intruder, Talia began to look at Mel a little funny.

“What?” Melissa asked when she caught the look. Talia arched an eyebrow and looked pointedly toward Clint. Turning his back to the display table, Clint put down the soup ladle he and Natasha had been plotting against. It was supposed to be smooth and unnoticed but Talia bemusedly reasoned it put Clint Barton’s mental age at somewhere around seventeen years old.

“I was just wondering again when we get to hear how you two met,” said Talia.

Mel shrugged and grinned at Clint. “I dunno. The usual way?”

“Yeah, we’ll go with that,” said Clint. “That was surprisingly mild for my usual introductions, actually.”

“Well, let’s think on this a moment. Mel’s a nurse. Seems to me I just heard the two of you plotting to kill someone with a soup spoon... Are you seeing my confusion here?” said Talia. Natasha tilted her head and looked between the two before nodding her agreement. Clint was still having fun.

“Well, I told you it went nowhere,” he reminded Natasha. Mel’s answer was cut off by the ringing of her cell phone.

“Oh. Great,” she said, scrunching her nose. Talia caught a look at the caller ID and realized why the mood dropped. Chris Argent didn’t often make _social_ calls. Clint and Natasha listened shamelessly to Melissa’s side of the conversation. Standing beside Mel, Talia had no problems hearing the whole thing.

“It looks like the kids found trouble for Christmas,” said Chris on the other end of the connection. Mel looked to Talia, the both of them concerned.

“What kind of trouble?” asked Mel.

“I’m not sure. Allison said there’s trees attacking Lydia’s back fence,” said Chris. “Apparently Lydia won’t leave the house and Al’s worried. She called Stiles first and she said he just rambled about dryads and TV shows and wouldn’t help her.”

“I’m sorry, there’s _what_ doing _what_ to the fence?” asked Melissa. Talia blinked at Mel in mild confusion for a moment.

“Your parents never told you about tree fairies?” she asked. Everyone knew about the fae and the forests and fairy rings. Talia had told her kids to never talk to the trees when they were young, to always respect the woods. It came natural to her. That wasn’t the case with Mel, nor apparently Clint from the look on his face when he overheard her. Natasha didn’t look terribly surprised. At Mel’s negative shake of the head in response, Talia stayed quiet.

“I’ve only got what she told me,” said Chris. “And she said that trees are attacking the fence and Stiles seemed to have theories on it.”

“That’s normal,” muttered Mel. “The Stiles part, not the trees.”

Chris put the phone to his shoulder or muffled it somehow then because Talia couldn’t hear anything she recognized, aside from maybe the man’s heartbeat. A moment later he was back.

“Okay, so Sam just said they just got off the phone with Stiles,” said Chris.

Mel’s jaw dropped. “No offense, they’re great guys, but... since _when_ are the Winchesters a relay point?”

“From what Sam just told me, I’d guess since Stiles figures somebody pissed off a dryad by stealing mistletoe,” Chris replied.

“What exactly are we supposed to do about _that_?” Mel asked, worried. “The things are attacking the fence you said? Really?”

“I’m working on it,” Chris told her. “But I’ve never actually pissed off the fae so I’m not sure what will work here.”

Talia looked around the busy department store aisle and decided the conversation was going to need moved quickly. “How about I fill in some details on that when we get back outside,” she suggested. “This is not really the place for this conversation.”

Mel glanced around then and seemed to agree. She wrapped up the call with Chris and turned to Talia, her disbelief obvious.

“Tell me you’re joking,” she said. Talia offered a mild grin and shook her head.

 

***

 

In the Martin home, Derek paced by himself in the living room. Lydia, Ethan, and Aiden were up with Allison in Lydia’s room. Isaac was prowling in the kitchen for something. Derek’s attention was, for the most part, aimed out the glass doors overlooking the yard and pool of the backyard. Of specific interest was the thrashing trees beating against the stucco fence that bordered the property. In one section, it looked like gale force winds were bending the huge bare limbs to scratch against the wall.

The only problem was that there was no wind. There was a light rain, and even that was occasionally snow-slush falling. Nothing was blowing. The trees were working entirely on their own.

Allison said they started hitting at the fence not long after she got off the phone with Stiles. And, up in her room, Lydia wouldn’t stop staring at them. The house was brick, and the apparently mobile tree-monsters would have to get around the pool before they could get that far, assuming they ever made it through the wall. Derek watched as the naked sticks were used as spears, stabbing at the stucco with violently effective force and patiently chipping away at the wall. Derek wasn’t overly worried yet.

But even if he was, what the hell was he supposed to do against a pack of _trees_? Get a chainsaw? He considered fire, but the last thing he needed was a creative tree sacrificing branches to start shooting little flaming arrows or chipmunks at Lydia’s house.

Even though he had been reading through the same internet searches as Stiles the day before, Derek needed more information. Deaton hadn’t answered his phone so he was out as a source for the moment. Stiles was still useful for information and random connections, which was kind of what they really needed when nothing else really made sense. And Stiles tended to actually answer his phone when he called, so there was that. And then Stiles was on the phone, in and out amid a background of squeaky metal shopping carts and Scott pestering with questions about what to put in them. And then questions about Lydia started up.

Derek dropped onto a chair as now even Stiles hit him with attitude he didn’t want to deal with when there were trees beating on the back fence. "I don’t know what to tell you. She won't leave, so the twins won't leave, so _I'm_ staying."

"You are not my favorite person right now. You're not supposed to let her get away with arguing. It’s an _Alpha_ thing." Stiles was still grouchy. Derek rolled his eyes at the ceiling.

"Yeah, Stiles, I know the _theory_ ," he said, annoyed. "But trust me, reality doesn't follow theory. Ask my mom. Ask Mel. I'd say ask Scott, but he's apparently charmed."

"Trigger healing, cracks the jinx," said Stiles, distractedly.

"What?"

"Uhh, sorry. Multitasking on autopilot. Charm. Jinx. Brain got mixed - did Allison and Isaac stay?"

"Yeah, because Scott told them to." Derek scowled at that; all it took was a text message exchange and Scott didn’t even have to pull out the alpha card to get cooperation.

"This isn't fair," said Stiles. Derek silently agreed, for so many reasons.

"There are trees _moving_ and they are attacking the fence... there's no windstorm, Stiles. I'm _okay_ with having the backup," he said instead.

"Yeah, _that's_ creepy."

Derek listened to the sounds of the store going on around Stiles for a moment, let the companionable quiet calm him down a little from the uncertainty of sitting in Lydia’s living room waiting for trees to attack. Stiles’ breathing evened out a little, which amused Derek to realize that being quiet could even calm Stiles. Still, he finally interrupted to ask, "Why dryads?"

"Huh?"

Derek tried again. "Before I saw this place today, fine, I'll go with fairies. But you were talking dryads after we came out here with the hunters."

Stiles was slow to answer, and Derek could hear the shrug of his shoulders. "Saw the oaks. I dunno, I've just been kind of paranoid about them since the stuff with Blake. My dad was almost buried under a tree so I’ve kinda started paying attention more, you know? _Darach_ , dark oak... Oaks plus fairies... I didn't figure I'd turn out right, damnit, but that's what the hunters said, too.."

"How long on the white flag?"

Stiles’ heart rate spiked from a flare of annoyance. "Do you know how much crap we gotta buy for that-"

"How long?" Derek talked over him to get him back on track.

"An hour. Probably two, easy."

"Damnit." Derek glared out the window, wondered how long the wall would handle a hundred little spears.

"Tell me about it."

There was a tired resignation in Stiles’ voice so Derek decided not to tell him about it. But he stayed on the line until Stiles hit the store check-out and had to actually talk to someone who wasn’t Derek or Scott.

 

***

 


	18. Chapter 18

With Clint as back-up, Mel stalked into the sheriff's office. Talia had been sent to take the SUV to help Chris with the dryad thing and Natasha opted to stick with her in the interests of the buddy-system. Clint volunteered to be drafted for the dangerous recon mission into territory shared by Kyle McCall. But it was still the sheriff's office, not the federal building, and Stilinski was still the sheriff.

On one hand, Mel was overstepping. Dating for a month and she thought she could order the sheriff to bail on his job for the afternoon to help her put out a few fires? The "normal" radar was telling her this was not done and she should not do it. But Melissa was learning to ignore that. She had known Casey too long, shared their latchkey kids to the point the boys would fight anyone who questioned their brotherhood, and now he and Chris had gotten her stuck as alpha in a half-wolf-pack. The werewolves trumped anything normal. And as a new alpha, Melissa had it pretty well figured out that the proverbial crap ran uphill toward the alpha more often than away from them. She was not getting stuck with a potential tree-war. Screw the Spanish Inquisition; for crying out loud, who in their right mind ever expected a tree-war?

"How does my son even get into these things?" she muttered. Clint shrugged and shook his head.

"Don't have a clue, but he's sure good at it," the man said helpfully. Mel snorted, in full agreement. As an afterthought, she looked to Clint, her expression a warning.

"No hitting, biting, flipping, or shooting anyone in the sheriff's office," she reminded him. Clint raised an eyebrow at her in return.

"No promises, either," he said. Then they were inside and Melissa had to drop the subject. She had gotten way too used to Casey, Chris and Peter agreeing with her, she realized. The alpha job came with surprising drawbacks. They walked into the bullpen and discovered that, thankfully, Kyle was out to lunch. Then Mel cornered Casey and politely asked for his assistance dealing with the neighborhood dogs. Clint looked like he was going to laugh for a split second, and Casey's eyebrows inched comically toward his hairline. John Watson however went slightly bug-eyed.

"You cannot- are you serio- you are, aren't you?" John rambled.

"I told you, John," chimed in Sherlock. The visiting investigator tore a piece of paper out of a file - it looked rather important, actually, - and wadded it up to start playing catch with it. He was leaned back in the chair looking perfectly comfortable and bored and Stilinski scrunched his nose, slightly pained, but let it pass. Mel stared at him, jaw slack.

"What?" asked Casey innocently. " _That's_ Kyle's copy."

John rounded the desk to face them more directly, without Sherlock's interruption.

"Neighborhood dogs?" he insisted. "Really? I'm pretty sure I've heard this one before."

Mel blinked at him. "Really?"

"Yeah," said Casey, nodding reluctantly. "That's how Derek got out of the house yesterday morning."

"Derek was at _your_ house?" Mel looked to Stilinski, once again surprised. He pulled another face, nodded again. John looked between them, annoyed.

"Do you honestly mean to tell me that my nephew is dating a... _neighborhood dog_?"

"Dating!" Melissa's eyes bugged. "Wha- who- Lydia's immune-"

"Mr. Derek Hale. And they're not actually _dating_ because they do not have the benefit of going on _dates_ ," said Sherlock helpfully. "Call it what you will. But yes. There is a neighborhood dog problem. It obviously involves your nephew and the good sheriff's presence is obviously required. So. We will entertain Agent McCall with an entirely worthless trip to the scene of the crime and Sheriff Stilinski can quietly step out. A few hours should be sufficient?" Sherlock looked to Melissa. "Or should I request to see Lake Tahoe?"

"No. _No_ driving to Tahoe in the snow," cut in Stilinski.

"I... Have no idea how long this could take," admitted Melissa. To her surprise, Sherlock smiled.

"Very well. John and I will... hold the fort," he said. Casey looked to his brother in law.

" _That_ worries me. Should that worry me?" he asked. John nodded automatically and then stopped when Sherlock looked at him.

"I mean- no. He's perfectly capable of _not_ getting us arrested on federal charges when you're gone," said John. It sounded like he was hinting heavily to Sherlock. Melissa couldn't tell if the man was listening or not.

 

***

 

Upon arrival at the Argent home, Casey stopped in the kitchen when he spied Stiles in it. He frowned as he watched his son take out a surprising amount of aggression on kneading dough that was supposed to become a loaf of bread offered up in the spirit of peace. To faeries who could, as it happened, pick up on spirits and intentions not matching up.

"I want really badly to check that flour for drugs but I'm ninety-nine point nine percent certain it's just flour," he noted idly, catching Stiles’ attention away from wherever his mind had gone.

"It's just flour. Trust me. At this point I wish it was coke and I was face first in it," said Stiles. The sheriff blinked at his son, set a hand to his head and ruffled his hair. Stiles shrugged it off and shoved at the bread dough he was working on the Argent's kitchen island.

"This has been the second worst Christmas of my life, but it's running neck and neck for first. And when Sherlock found the poinsettia thing I thought, hey, it's looking up... But then Allison said Lydia's seeing the trees move and all the stuff I read up on just - _wham!_ Freaking _tree fairies_."

"Dryads," said Casey, frowning and empathetic with his kid's plight. "Let's try to be respectful at least. What with Lydia declaring _war_ and everything."

"It's not like she knew," said Stiles. He scrunched his nose and punched at the bread. "But because of the whole banshee thing, she can't even do this part. It could taint the offering."

" _You_ don't have to anyway," said Casey. "There's three packs to share the load."

"Not really. I mean, if she's bad juju, what are werewolves? The bestiary said fairies have hierarchies,-"

Casey blinked at Stiles, confused. "What? How'd you read the-"

His son looked momentarily guilty before he seemed to get over it, which hit Stilinski’s parenting alarms in a big way. Stiles shrugged.

"Uh, I ran it through text recognition software last month and then made Google Translate my best friend."

"You could have just asked Chris for the English copy," said Casey.

"I tried. He won't share his stuff. _Totally_ failed kindergarten," said Stiles.

"More like totally doesn't want you guys messing around in this stuff so far over your heads," interrupted Chris as he walked in the room. He nodded toward the mess that had become his kitchen. "At least not alone."

"We're _not_ alone, we asked for help, okay? It's all cool," said Stiles.

Stilinski nodded to the chore his son was so annoyed at. "Then go take a break, let somebody else work on the magic peace bread."

"Love to,” said Stiles. His tone didn’t match his words though and Casey waited for the other shoe to drop. Stiles forced a cheerful expression as he looked over at his dad. “Who do you know that isn't a banshee, isn't a wolf, and/or hasn't come from a long lineage of supernatural murderers? Not to put too fine a point on it. But. Yeah."

"Me?" offered Casey. "Mel? Deaton?"

"Sure, except you were in the military. She's a nurse. Potential backlash there on the whole _omen of death_ thing. _Harbingers_ might not go over great either. And when I asked, Deaton said that even if he was in town, he can’t because of the whole druid thing..."

"He's not actually wrong," agreed Chris, reluctant. "There's this whole political spectrum with the fae. Light versus dark. A real juggling act, because their moral code isn't that black and white."

"Light isn't always good, dark isn't always bad," said Casey, nodding. "Yeah, I remember reading that part."

"Shakespeare had a few things pretty close," said Chris. "And thank god for English Lit."

"So, what, we make an offering to Oberon and it's all-better?" Casey asked him.

"Dryads are female. Less Puck, more Titania. Or Ariel, from _Tempest_ ," said Chris. "Not Disney."

Stiles stared between the two of them. He shook his head. "Now it's freaking Shakespeare."

"Hey, you take the help where you can get it," said Chris. Stiles scoffed.

"Even old dead dudes."

"Or old living ones," said Casey. He looked from Stiles to Chris. "Where's that damn book? I want a loophole."

 

***

 

"So here's something," announced Sam Winchester. Stiles looked up from the incense bundle he was assembling. The peace-bread was baking and the honey - local, organic, and freaking expensive - was on a slow purifying boil. That left the incense and reed smudges and all the mistletoe from Lydia's house. Lydia owed him in the neighborhood of a hundred bucks in parts and labor for this job but Stiles would never mention it again once it was all done. It was Lydia. Now he was almost done with the prep work and Sam was still looking for how to handle the whole thing.

"What?" asked Stiles.

"It's winter, just after the solstice, just before the new year? Basically, you guys caught them at a bad time of the year," said Sam.

"That's hilarious," muttered Stiles. Dean huffed his agreement.

Sam arched an eyebrow and shrugged, nodded half-heartedly. "They're, kinda, between kings this month. Old year dying, new year coming on, that sort of thing. But basically, it means the dryads are all really unsettled right now."

"Unsettled? Like _dry hay stack, meet match_? Or like _which socks do I wear on Tuesday_?" asked Stiles.

"Let's not bring Tuesday into this," said Sam quietly. Dean nodded his quick agreement with that one. Stiles looked at them in confusion but managed not to ask out loud how the two hunters had survived so long without a shrink.

"Who hates Tuesday? It's like the most boring day of the week," he said. Stiles shook his head. "Just... you didn't answer my question."

"You marched into a hayfield in the middle of summer carrying a flame thrower, basically, is what it's implying here," said Sam. Stiles stared at him, jaw slack. Then he plopped down the stick bundle he was binding, crossed his arms and pounded his head lightly against them.

"Hey, it'll be fine," said Dean.

"I want a vacation. From my vacation," said Stiles. "From my life would be good right about now. A nice beach, no faeries, a good wifi connection..."

Dean and Sam stared at him, completely unimpressed.

"Faeries aren't even the tip of the iceberg, Stiles," said Sam. "You can trust us on that one."

"Take it straight to the bank, kid, because you are in it up to your neck and in our experience, it only gets worse from here," added Dean.

"Yeah, got that memo for Thanksgiving," said Stiles. Elbows on the table, he shoved at his messy, shaggy hair and scowled down at the incense sticks and string. His dad was right; he was not in the spirit of apologizing to dryads and he had to get his head in the right place or he would ruin the whole thing.

"Okay. New search: find something about them that doesn't suck," said Stiles.

"Huh?"

"I have to do this," Stiles waved to the offering in front of him. "But right now, these jerks are scaring Lydia, and they tried to maim, kill or seriously injure my pa-als." Stiles caught himself just in time to avoid saying pack. "So I'm not feeling the whole _hugging tree faeries_ right now."

"Got it. Find you stories about good faeries," said Sam.

"Exactly."

Dean frowned between them, not quite catching on. "Google fu makes faerie-huggers?"

Sam sighed. Stiles squinted at the hunter.

"Nope. Still don't like you."

"Google fu can't fix that, either," said Dean.

 

***


	19. Chapter 19

There was a line-up against the windows in the Martin's living room, a row of silhouettes against the slow first stages of sunset. Stiles stepped up beside his dad, wedged between his father and Derek, to see what everyone was staring at. His eyes bugged.  
The damage to the back fence was going to be impossible to explain to the Martins when they got back from Sacramento. The rumor was that Allison and Lydia were supposed to have gone with them but Lydia was, amazingly, too preoccupied to shop. Stiles understood her dilemma as he stared at the trees. It was like Ents had shrunk themselves just so they could cause more damage on the ground.

"Uh."

Sheriff Stilinski nodded. "Yeah. Not good."

"I don't think a loophole will save us anything," said Stiles, worried. His father scoffed.

From the other end of the line, Talia looked down the row at Casey and Melissa. "So maybe we should come back tonight when they're weaker? Maybe they won't make it to the house that fast."

Chris shrugged at the logic and considered it. Stiles looked between them, scandalized. "What do you mean they're weaker at night?"

The hunter arched an eyebrow, his usual dismissive. "What? It was in the bestiary. You mean Google Translate failed you at something?"

Stiles scowled out the window. "Freaking tree fairies."

That was what Lydia walked into a minute later. "This is stupid," she announced. "I'll just go talk to them and explain-"

Stiles half-turned to face her. "And your banshee voice will make them bleed out their ears. Or maybe it'll kill them. Not a good way to start off the peace talks. Dead faeries. Bad idea."

She looked from Stiles to the window, distressed. "But... _My house!_ "

One of the trees trying to shred Lydia's back fence paused, a high pitched screech making even the non-wolves flinch. Derek risked reaching over and catching Lydia in a protective hold with his hand over her mouth as he ducked her out of the room with the windows.

"You. Don't talk," he told her. Lydia nodded quickly, both hands over her own mouth. She stayed against the wall where Derek put her, out of sight from the windows. Just in case, Derek stood between Lydia and the door and kept tabs on the trees.

"I'm... Yeah, I'm going to go get the basket out of the car," said Stiles, distracted, like everybody else who stared out the back window. Nobody argued. Stiles ran for the car, trying to think past the brain-fog of distracting panic with Lydia's name on it. There was no plan for cutting through an active attack. The peace basket had been started when the trees had only moved around a little, and really it wasn't like Derek expected Stiles to believe him when he told him over the phone that trees were attacking anything. Now they were almost cut through. They were out of time.

Stiles did dig into the truck for the basket, but he didn't go back in the house. He snuck around back, between fences and headed toward the back patch of forest. He would make it up as he went. He was good at that lately.

It was still daylight. Sunset was an hour away. The fence would be down by then. There was no real way around it. No way to explain the damage that had already occurred, no way to fix it, no way to keep it from continuing in the morning, short of a stupid basket of breads and honey and incense.

So Stiles and the stupid basket stood at the edge of a recent clearing, not far from Lydia's back fence but far enough he could outrun the Ent-midgets if he picked the wrong oak tree to appeal to. Looking around at the potholes of upturned dirt and leaves and the network of root-holes left behind around them, Stiles figured he had it right on target. There were plenty of trees still standing guard between the massive oak and the various trees currently beating on the stucco fence fifty yards away, shrubs and vines and a carpet of leaves and fallen branches. It wasn’t a smart place to be, Stiles realized. Once he was in, there was no unguarded way out.

"Awesome," he muttered. Stiles took a wandering path toward the old oak, keeping clear of all trees as best as possible. As he stepped out among the turned up piles of dirt, he caught movement, a flap of air in a blanket or something that sounded like it, and turned. Where he had seen narrow, curving trees circling the old white-barked oak, now stood figures in cloaks. Freaking _cloaks_.

"Nope. Done. I'm out," said Stiles, quickly turning to head back to the car for better reinforcement than a basket of bread. It brought him nose to nose with a faerie in a hoodie and Stiles nearly yelled.

"Don't be rude."

The admonishment was quiet, the man's voice not quite conspiratorial as he glared. Stiles was only half certain he was dealing with someone older than him; under the hood, the fae's features were young but the eyes were old and a dark mossy green that just further creeped Stiles out. He backed up, the basket keeping an extra buffer zone of space whichever way he turned.

"Uh. Sorry," said Stiles. He pounced on his own words. "That's why I'm here. I'm supposed to apologize to someone on behalf of... Uh. Someone else."

"That is rude," said another hooded person who had been a tree. She shoved her hood back over blonde hair and the same weird eyes and Stiles backed off again. "They should apologize on their own behalf."

"She didn't think you would want to see her, so she sent a neutral third party," said Stiles quickly. "Funny story, really..."

"Really?" The dryad did not sound amused. "Tell us a story then, bard. Quickly."

A third member of the tree-guard stepped forward and started poking at the basket. It was pulled to safety and hefted under one arm instead of by the handles.

"Well, actually, I guess it's not that funny," said Stiles. "They took mistletoe without asking. The end. So I've... brought a trade. In apology."

"The banshee keeps a poor bard," clucked a lady dryad.

"Neutral third party," Stiles repeated.

"Storyteller," corrected one of the fae. They circled and poked, investigating. The one who had spoken flipped at the cloth over the basket. "That is no apology. No offering. That is an insult."

Stiles defended the basket and let his annoyance show. "This is hours of work, man. Be nice!"

"Then why do you not return what they stole?" asked the woman. "Meager buy offs. Psht."

Stiles forgot to breathe for a second. That was a valid point and a very big problem.

"Uh. I forgot. Actually. But that's an honest mistake! That basket's back with my stuff..." It was also still completely empty but he wasn't going to mention that part. He had jumped the gun. He had screwed up. Big time.

Faeries were pretty much cemented in his top five of worst creations ever and Stiles shrunk back further from the gang pestering him. He tripped and caught himself against the oak, just barely. The basket was quickly tucked at the base in the roots and Stiles muttered a prayer-spell as best he could make one up. The internet was great but it didn't teach him the formal ways and expectations of the dryad's apology rituals. At least half the mission was complete as far as Stiles was concerned. Now he just had to get out of the trees before they attacked him. Then he looked up and saw a new dryad hanging out and looking bored not far from where he stashed the basket.

There was no way he would survive if the dryads kept rearranging their own faces every time he saw them. And it really wasn't okay that the newest fae had his mom's face.

 

***

 

The sheriff checked his watch and scowled, frustrated.

"Has anyone seen my son in the last ten minutes?" he asked.

"As bad as this sounds, we've been a little more worried about the trees," said Chris. He frowned then and looked to Derek. The alpha still stood watch over Lydia, though she had been allowed to sit on the couch instead of hold up the wall. She kept a wary distance of the Christmas tree and the four-legged Aiden-wolf scowled at it every so often.

"He's fine," said Derek. "They all are."

"Yeah, but he's been quiet too long," said Casey. "He's like a toddler. Silence is bad."

Derek looked amused and shrugged the logic off; he apparently hadn't been around Stiles enough to catch that memo and didn't quite believe him. Stilinski rolled his eyes and turned to go hunt up his boy.

By then, Scott was coming in from outside, an empty basket in his hand. He looked worried. "Stiles took the offering," he reported. "But he forgot the apology."

Stilinski looked at the doorway over Scott's head and swore under his breath. He stalked forward to pull the sprig of mistletoe down and looked over to Derek.

"Get the rest of this stuff collected. I'll go stall," he said. Annoyed and worried and awkward, he felt like an idiot for even thinking he could try. But that was what he was left with.

"How?" asked Melissa. Sheriff Stilinski nodded to Chris.

"Talia helped us find a loophole."

 

***

 

The surprise settled back after a moment and Stiles could get his brain to focus on something other than his mom. Standing in front of him. Like she didn't know him.

She didn't know him because it _wasn't_ his mom. Faeries. Freaking faeries.

Stiles snatched the basket back and got to his feet.

"Yeah, no. That? That doesn't work for me," said Stiles, motioning toward the fae closest to him. He waved his hand in a circle at his own face to show the offensive move. "Knock it off."

"Now you go back on your word," said another dryad, pointing to the basket Stiles had stolen back. "You promised that to her and now-"

"The oak is yours?" Stiles asked, looking between the two. He was angry and let it show; he had already dealt with his share of magic from a darach and wouldn't be played by a tree faerie too. The woman nodded, peered at him curiously from under her gray hooded cloak. Stiles kept the basket out of reach.

"Fine. Change your face and I'll go back to being the neutral third party messenger," Stiles told her firmly. "But not until then."

"What?" she asked. The oak dryad actually laughed.

"The tree dryads are fairies. Fairies can glamour," said Stiles. He pointed again. "That's a glamour. I came here to deal with you, not my mother. So get out of my head and stop hiding behind her face."

"Tree fairies, as you call us, live in trees," the oak faerie reminded him. She dropped back a step, peeking around the massive tree trunk to look at him. "And just look around you. All trees have faces discernible in the bark when a person's in a mindset to see them."

Stiles glared at the tree and saw only jagged lines of bark. "Look, I came here as a favor, to show respect. If you can't respect that enough to pick somebody else's face, if you think you've really gotta use my dead Mom's face, then you can forget any effort at respect from me. You can just go back to your fight with the _banshee_ and hope she doesn't kill you when she tries to talk it out herself."

"Clever bard," said the first dryad. Stiles rolled his eyes and rounded on the fae.

"Don't start with me, man. Dryads are female. Just like banshees," said Stiles. "It's your stupid glamour that tipped me off." He glared around at the others, still waiting for the oak to make her move. "So I caught you. You can either respect that and drop the faces, or I walk, and you have fun storming the banshee castle."

For what felt like an hour, Stiles found himself in a tense standoff with a pack of tall and narrow fae. He realized it had been less than a minute when the oak dryad's face smeared in shadows and became something less like his mother and more like a bird, narrow features with too-big eyes and a small but pointy nose. There was a huff of annoyance and a flap of hoods off of heads as the gathered pack of dryads, some eight fae strong at that point, all followed the oak's example. They looked like mostly normal people still, if a little elongated and exaggerated and faerie enough that they were creepy. Stiles nodded his thanks as he stepped up to the tree to replace the basket.

"The banshee meant no offense when she took the mistletoe-" he began, only to be interrupted.

"No, only when she set it up for a lark," said the first dryad. Now female and hoodless, pale and very slender, with bits of leaves and seed pods in her straw-colored hair, Stiles figured she came from one of the birch trees. He recognized a few other leaf patterns adorning their woven faerie crowns and realized they took parts of their trees with them when they left them. For Stiles it worked out like a handy labeling system. And the birch dryad was a slightly pissed off bitch.

"Mistletoe is not to be touched, not to be thrown on the ground, not to be abused. No one treated it with respect. It was stolen and maligned-"

"We didn't know, okay? Now we do, so we'll ask next time. We were just... following our own traditions. Kinda making up new ones." Stiles shrugged. He pointed to the basket. "But that still means it won't happen again. We promise. And I'll go back and get the mistletoe to return it too. I told you, I just forgot that basket."

"It is a hollow apology," said the birch. She looked to the oak dryad. "You should not accept incomplete apologies. This is not amended."

"Well it's the best offer on the table," said Stiles, annoyed at the birch dryad's interference. "So what about it?"

Suddenly he was staring up at the birch dryad from way too close. "Child bard. The forest should keep you."

 

***


	20. Chapter 20

California’s version of cold was nothing like what John was used to and he rather liked the non-muggy pitiful effort that it made. He tucked into his jacket in the cold car and literally watched the seconds tick by on his watch, mostly warm in the closed up car as he waited for Sherlock to do his thing. Kyle McCall was terrible company and John would have gone in, but Sherlock had specifically told him not to. He wasn’t sure when Sherlock started communing with a crime scene like a psychic savant, but it wouldn’t do to argue with the annoying man. There was more riding on the wasted afternoon than just an active investigation. They had to stall for time, and there was no one John knew who could do that better than Sherlock, after three years not-dead thank-you-very-much. And the tick-tock of the watch was at least something to listen to.

Movement caught his attention and John looked up to see McCall frown down at his jacket pocket. He pulled a card out of it and rolled his eyes. He shrugged stiff shoulders and seemed to contemplate the number printed on it.

“It’s probably a damn gag card,” said McCall, sounding annoyed.

“What is?” asked John. He was more bored than curious, having already spent too much time around Kyle to really care about anything that would make the man make _that_ face. John would probably rather cheer on anything that caused that kind of irritation but locked in the car with him was hardly the time or place. Kyle held the card up.

“Supposedly this number is for Melissa’s house guests’ employer,” said Kyle. “It’s probably a porno hotline.”

Having spent a couple hours getting to know Melissa and her friends over the past few days, John disagreed but he just shook his head. He was about to tune the agent out when Kyle pulled a cell phone out of the belt clip at his side and started punching buttons.

“You think it’s a porn-line and you’re calling it anyway?” questioned John, one eyebrow raised.

“It’s my job,” said Kyle mildly. John decided then to leave that topic alone and waited to hear where the call went.

As it turned out, it really did go to Natasha and Clint’s boss. John listened, wide-eyed and silently amused, as Kyle suddenly had to explain how he had gotten the man’s number.

“The card says you’re a director?” Kyle asked. Shamelessly eavesdropping - it was Kyle’s own fault for making the call in the car - John nearly choked. A beat later, Kyle frowned. “Director Fury of _what_?”

It was very tempting to reach over and take the phone to put it on speaker because the look on Kyle’s face was indescribable. “Is that a military contractor? ...well it sounds like one. Look, the man who gave me the number says he works for you. One Clint Barton? Yes? Okay, what about a red-headed woman? I never caught her name...”

John could have cleared that one up for Kyle easily enough but he chose not to because he hadn’t been asked and the man was obviously on the phone; he didn’t want to be rude as he listened in.

“The point is, they need reined in. They attacked me-” Kyle’s potentially-interesting story was cut off by the person talking loudly on the other end of the tinny cell phone connection. “Wait, you’re trying to tell me they- what? Nobody has that clearance. I’m a federal agent! There is no clearance level that makes it okay to attack a-”

There was a sudden quiet, Kyle’s face coloring three shades and then back to sheet-white in the cold. “Okay, that one might,” he admitted reluctantly. John did laugh that time and Kyle didn’t even glare at him for it, too otherwise shocked.

“Yes, it happened on Christmas... yeah, he said he was on vacation... That doesn’t mean I can’t file a complaint about-” Kyle stopped talking again, listening. John Watson leaned closer across the seats, trying hard to hear what was said.

“...want to press charges, that’s your goddamn prerogative,” the man on the phone said loudly, even somehow authoritative enough that the distance and the phone couldn’t distort him. “But you realize you’ll be alleging that a woman not even half your size could have quite literally wiped the floor with your drunk ass. Now I am all for equality in the freakin’ work place, but do you really want to go _on the record_ saying a female agent put you on your ass without breaking a sweat? That will reflect poorly on your review next April. And from what I’ve heard, you think you’re in the running for a promotion...”

“How the hell-”

“I’m just saying it’ll look like some questionable choices were made. In your permanent file. And that’s your choice,” the disembodied voice carried on. “Stupid, if you ask me, but so is pissing off my agents. So I _don’t_ suggest you do it again.”

Their Director Fury was as entirely unsympathetic as the good Doctor John Watson. Satisfied, John eased back toward the safety of the door and pretended not to notice as Kyle floundered his way out of the conversation he had so stupidly started. The federal agent had stepped in it enough that John could go back to his nice British manners and at least pretend to let McCall suffer the embarrassment in solitude. A minute later the call was ended and John glanced over at Kyle to see the agent glaring out the windshield.

"Not a skin call, then?" he asked, just a little too innocuous. The agent ignored him and put the phone away.

 

***

 

"Wait. That's supposed to work?" Dean stared at the small town sheriff like the man had just suggested they walk out into the line of fire for a bunch of fairy-possessed trees and ask them politely to stop destroying stuff. Because that was insanity. There was no way Dean had actually heard that.

“It could work," said Casey Stilinski. "Maybe. The stories say it might."

"Mights and maybes come with a back up plan, right?" asked Sam. "Because I don't have a clue how to stop _Ents_."

"I'm sorry, did you just call them Ents?" asked Natasha. She pointed their attention to the trees still poking at the rubble of the fence.

"Dryads," said Casey.

"Hamadryads, more likely," corrected Sam.

"I ask again, what is that?" said Natasha.

"And can we shoot it?" Clint added.

Scott frowned between Clint and Chris. "Is this preoccupation with shooting things actually healthy?"

"Yes," said Clint, Chris and Dean at once. Dean eyed the teen suspiciously but refrained from firing back by questioning Scott's wolfy preoccupation with growing fangs and bad sideburns.

"Guardians make sense to them. The dryads protect the trees, the trees protect the dryads," said Talia, steering them back on track.

Casey nodded. "So they get the protector thing. If a darach can target us as guardians, the dryads can just... catch the hint."

"So?"

"They're pulling this attitude on our territory," said Casey. He motioned to Mel and Chris and Talia. "It’s not far from the Hale lands and that was all turned over to the county and made part of the preserve. The Hales used to take care of things out here on their own, now _I_ do. So they’re on our territory. And they should at least be aware that there's consequences-"

"That'd be great except we don't even know what those would be yet," said Dean. "Trust me, don't lie to these things."

"Consequence: archers with iron-tipped arrows," said Chris. "If they want to pursue this, in a day I can get ammo to match. Put a bullet in every tree in the preserve."

“ _Iron_ is a thing in this?” asked Clint. “I know a guy...”

Natasha rolled her eyes. “Clint, stop.”

For his part, Dean was still puzzling it over. “So shoot them, axe them, problem solved?”

"Threatening them won't make them back off," said Melissa.

"No," agreed Sam, catching on. "But they don't have to know about it. It's a Plan B."

"Let's just hope this works," said the sheriff. "If we have to, we can work on the back-up when we're running for cover."

Dean looked over at the sheriff, again wondering how he had survived an election. Clint, who seemed to be wondering the same thing, thumped Stilinski on the shoulder.

"Great pep-talk, Casey,” said Clint. “I feel like going out and tackling the spear-wielding monsters now. Anybody else?”

 

***

 

They stalled as long as they could. A simple apology shouldn't have taken so long and everyone knew there was trouble when Stiles didn’t turn up. As much as she was worried, Talia was also disappointed. Stiles should have waited for everyone so the three packs could go together with Mel as a mediator and back-up at hand. Now that plan was out. The wall was still standing, being steadily chipped away by the trees from the preserve beyond. There was no telling what would happen when the sun went down. Stiles had disappeared _with_ their apology so they weren’t left with many options. Talia knelt at the side of the couch Lydia had retreated to. She leaned on the armrest comfortably, looking from face to face around the room.

"Lydia, we're going to need your help with this," she said calmly, her usual unruffled demeanor. There were tree fae breaking down the back fence and Talia was fine with it. They could only deal with one problem at a time and the condition of a mostly decorative fence was low on the priority list.

"Just don't talk while you're at it," said Derek. Lydia nodded quickly, remembering the dryads' screech as clearly as the rest of them. Talia sighed.

"Talking is what we need you to do," she said. "Just stay _calm_ and they won't come to any harm from your voice."

Uncertain, Lydia looked from Talia to Derek and then Melissa. After an assurance from the territorial alpha that they would keep her safe, no matter how the trick panned out, Lydia looked to Talia. "What am I supposed to say?"

"Pretend the dryads can hear you," said Sheriff Stilinski. "Let them know you didn't mean to start a war. Apologize."

Scott looked on from near the windows. "Should I help?" he asked. Talia gave a clear negative and Scott settled down. Lydia was left to sort out saying sorry on her own. The first few composed words came out quiet and then got stronger. There was another screeching fit from outside that made her go quiet but Talia encouraged her to go on. Lydia apologized for every accidental abuse they had heaped on the mistletoe at the party, crime by crime as she understood it. The dryad scream outside quieted. She promised to never repeat the offense. The scream stopped. Lydia looked to Talia, worried by the silence, but Talia wasn't concerned by it.

"It's alright," said Talia. "It wasn't real."

"What?" asked Lydia. "It definitely sounded real!"

Talia gave a wry smile. "If it had been a real scream, a real death, you would have been the only one who could hear it."

"You guys?" Scott stared out the window. "Uh. Something's happening."

The group moved to crowd the windows and look out. The wall that had been in crumbles was slowly healing itself and then crumbling again, in waves, until it snapped back to the usual stucco fence.

"Is that what I think it is?" asked Melissa, her eyes wide as she took everything in. Talia was silently proud of Mel for trusting her senses in the face of the supernatural lately.

"It was just a glamour," said Chris. "They never actually broke anything."

Derek looked just as surprised as Chris. "And the scream..."

"Just another distraction," said Sam. "A banshee could break the glamour. They were trying to psych you out."

"Well, it certainly worked," muttered Lydia. She looked to Talia. "How did you know?"

"I didn't," said the werewolf, amused. "I was hoping to force a parley. I couldn't see the rouse any better than you could."

"Clever wolves," said an almost familiar voice behind them. The group turned quickly. Talia heard a strange distortion in the tone and was left unable to place why it struck at every nerve along her spine. There was a hard tension to the air around Melissa and Casey and Chris and it only added to Talia’s confusion. She took another look at the dryad as the fae removed their hood. The vague sense of familiarity from the wrong voice suddenly made sense as she recognized the face.

“Stiles?” Casey started forward but Talia blocked him.

“It’s not him,” she said quietly. “The voice was wrong-” If it was Stiles standing in the center of the room, he had picked up an olive-colored hoodie while he was out. Something definitely wasn't right.

"What is this?" asked Melissa. "Stiles? Are you alright?"

Stiles smiled at her and, beside Talia, Derek let out a low growl. He moved to collect the basket of mistletoe, protecting it. Stiles noticed and the boy hissed. He bared his teeth and _hissed_. They weren't dealing with Stiles. It was just another glamour. Even Casey caught the hint.

"Where's my son?"

The question prompted snarling from the twin wolves guarding Derek and Lydia, even as Chris, Clint, and the Winchesters pulled handguns and spread out from the group. Casey looked back to Melissa and Chris, catching Talia’s eye briefly. She saw the uncertainty; after hours of worrying about the trees, it couldn’t be that easy.

“Look, I get that there’s a problem and we’re working on it...” The sheriff’s effort at negotiation stopped when the hooded figure very carefully stepped up to balance on the edge of the Martin’s coffee table, standing tall and looking down at them.

“The problem is not with you,” said the dryad with Stiles’ face. “Do not involve yourself.”

The wolves present winced at the voice. As a proof that it wasn’t Stiles they were dealing with a second dryad appeared from the hallway, showing another face like Stiles’ peering back at them from under a hood. Talia actually felt Casey relax.

“You involved me when you started attacking my territory,” said the sheriff. The hesitance had disappeared, an undercurrent of anger there instead. “Your trees are on land I protect as sheriff. They’re my responsibility. You need to refrain from destroying my things or I’m really going to get involved.”

“Things were stolen. We intend to get them back,” said the dryad on the table. The fae in the hall darted forward and lit on the back of the couch, inhuman defiance of gravity in a Stiles-shaped package.

“However we have to,” the second dryad said, cool and cheerful.

“We’ll bring it out to you,” Casey promised. “Just as soon as my son’s back from taking the offering to the oak the mistletoe was stolen from. I told you, we’re working on fixing the problem.”

The dryads fell quiet.

“Where’s my son?” the sheriff asked. “He’s not involved either. There is no _trade_ here.”

There was more silence from the dryads and Casey took a step closer so Talia matched him, ready to move if needed. She didn’t like what she was hearing in the silence, an undercurrent of whisperings that made no sense and made her skin crawl. The banshee who had taken refuge behind Melissa was so on edge she was distracting and only added to the noise the wolves had to sort through.

The lithe creature on the table stood tall and stared down at them. The other skittered from the couch to the coffee table and then launched itself at the Christmas tree. The long coat disappeared among the branches of the ten-foot tall tree. The dryad left behind dropped down from the table and backed toward the tree.

“We await the return of what is ours,” it said. “And we meant no disrespect to you, Sheriff. Your help is welcome. But keep the banshee and her wolves out of our trees. Unclean things. They are thieves. They are unwelcome.”

Then the dryad faded into the Christmas tree, not seeming to notice that the branches still shook from the first attack it had survived. The twin wolves left their posts guarding their pack and snarled and snapped their way around the tree, aggressively sniffing and poking their noses into branches. Talia watched them for a moment, thoughtful.

“Your loophole worked,” she observed, looking over at Stilinski. He still scowled at the tree.

“Yeah,” he said. “Little bit pissed off at my kid right now because of that fact.”

 

***


	21. Chapter 21

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Finally! Here it is! I'm posting everything tonight because the next week or two is going to be completely chaotic for me and I want to make sure this doesn't get lost in the drug-haze left over from surgery. Blah. Which means this update will be more than one chapter! Enjoy!
> 
> \---

December 26th

 

The stillness after the dryads disappeared didn't last long. Natasha pulled Clint subtly out of the way as Stilinski moved to take the basket of mistletoe but Derek wasn't letting it go. He put the coffee table between them and headed for the door to the backyard.

"Where the hell do you think you're taking that?" Stilinski asked. The man wasn't messing around. Clint looked over at Derek and realized that the wolf wasn't messing around either.

"To get Stiles," said Derek. "I can find him faster."

"Huh?" The confused question came from the Winchester brothers but Clint felt just as clueless.

"Derek's an alpha," said Scott. "Stiles is in his pack, so Derek can track him down easier. Like Alpha-GPS."

"That's... weird," said Dean. He looked surprised. Clint wasn't sure how to interpret that face since Dean and Sam were supposed to be experts in all things weird, according to Talia. Maybe he had been working for S.H.I.E.L.D too long if alpha-GPS made sense to him.

"That's great and all but the dryads said no wolves in the woods," Clint pointed out. By then, Casey had caught up just at the door to catch the basket and drag Derek back inside.

"Exactly," said Casey.

"Clint can go, he's not a wolf, not pack,"said Melissa. There was a standoff happening and she looked worried. Clint didn't argue being volunteered. He jumped in to settle it, adding a third set of hands to the basket of mistletoe needing returned. It didn't work to make the werewolf back down.

"They didn't say anything about pack," said Derek. "They told us not to climb their trees. I don't plan to climb trees unless they've got the real Stiles hanging from one."

That mental image certainly stood out. Casey dropped his hand from the basket and crossed his arms. The man needed a moment to recover and breathe, Clint guessed, just from looking at the red that had risen to Casey's face.

"You really want to risk that outcome?" said Natasha from the sidelines.

"He's right, though," said Sam. "They only want everyone to stay out of their trees. And if he's the head of a pack-"

"Alpha," said Talia helpfully. Sam looked like he felt a bit weird with the idea but he went with it.

"If Derek's alpha to the pack, and Stiles is in that pack, that's... Well, it's the territorial thing all over again," said Sam. The sheriff looked about to be thoroughly offended that his son was someone's territory and Melissa looked about to join in. Sam kept talking to try to dig himself out of the hole.

"The sheriff holds the territory. But the alpha holds the pack. If they respect it on a macro level, they'll respect it at the pack level," said Sam. Clint startled when Derek gave a renewed tug on the basket.

The bad thing about surprising Clint was that he had fast reflexes and carried an arsenal. There was a knife in his free hand before Derek could blink, a defensive warning shot against werewolf claws. He was hyper-aware that he stood among werewolves. Maybe he didn't know anything about real werewolves but he knew the fairy tales and wasn't risking an interspecies incident.

"I'm going. Let go," Derek said, his voice barely not a growl.

"Fine," said Clint, no less determined. "But I go with you. So when they kick you out of their forest of trees, there's still somebody left to get this thing where it needs to go."

"Fine," returned Derek. "Just keep up."

When he tugged on the basket again, Clint didn't argue. He glanced at Mel and Casey before following Derek out the back door into the yard. The werewolf jumped the fence, proving it was still whole, and Clint followed.

 

***

 

It wasn't hard to find the muddy path back into the reserve and Derek and Clint followed it. Derek was armed well enough as a werewolf and Clint didn't trust peace-accords. He carried his sidearm in plain sight even if he wasn't in uniform, as much good as it would do against a tree. At least he had it, just in case.

Not long after they lost sight of the Martins’ fence, they came across the clearing that had been made around an old white oak. It was hard to miss. The bark glowed slightly from the fading sunlight and there were half a dozen dryads in it or under it, lounging like cats. Derek stopped, looking like he wasn’t sure how close he could get to the scene. Clint blinked and stared. Then he heard talking.

Someone prattled on about Tauriel from the crook of the trunk, just barely visible around the thick branch they sat on. Clint thought he recognized the voice. Derek must have known it quite well based on how quickly he broke the line into the clearing.

“Stiles?” the werewolf called out. The story stopped and Clint swore under his breath, running to catch up to where Derek had charged into the clearing. The dryads around the tree stood up, and the few on the branches looked suddenly ready to jump down on the attack.

"Hate to interrupt storytime, but I'm looking for some dryads?" Clint asked quickly. He kept his attention on the dryads suddenly standing at the base of the tree even as the kid he had shown up to fetch stood up from the branch near the trunk.

"Finally!" Stiles Stilinski braced himself against the trunk and jumped-and/or-fell down from the tree. "What took you guys so long?" He tripped on the landing and came up glaring in Derek’s direction. “Wait. You. Not supposed to be here.”

“Tried to tell him that,” said Clint. “He didn’t want to listen.”

“I knew where to find you, he didn’t,” said Derek. The werewolf handed the basket over when Stiles tried to take it from him, not about to argue having his hands freed up again. The vibe from the dryads around them was creepy. Clint wanted them to keep their space.

"We might have been here sooner but somebody totaled the Audi so I had to walk all the way out here," he told the kid, distracted. Stiles rolled his eyes and shook his head.

"Ohmygod. You whine a lot normally?" the kid asked. Clint cut him a glare but Stiles had turned away. He left the basket at the base of the tree and then scampered back up to his earlier perch. Derek started after him but Clint caught him by the shoulder, a not-so-subtle reminder that the werewolf had promised not to climb any trees.

"What the hell are you doing, Stiles?" Clint asked, worried.

"Apologizing for Lydia and Scott," came the reply.

“Get back down here,” said Derek. The order was somewhere between a request and a plea. The wolf was just barely keeping himself from climbing up the tree and his muttering under his breath about _Stiles_ being an idiot was annoying under the circumstances. The werewolf was just as much of an idiot and Clint was his babysitter and how the hell did he get himself into this kind of absurdity on at least a monthly basis?

Clint watched unhappily as the awkward teenager climbed up another few feet into the tree and caught another branch, all the while hanging on to a bough of the previously stolen and now returned mistletoe. About ten feet up in the air, Stiles stopped and sat on the last possible branch available that could support his weight. A pair of dryads climbed up on parallel branches to oversee his actions. They didn't trust the kid either. Clint very casually kept his hand near the handgun at his thigh.

Through the encroaching darkness, Clint watched over the teenager as he took berries from the bough of mistletoe and smeared them into the bark.

"I don't think that's a really great idea... They're kind of particular about their parasites, kid..." Clint called up to him. Stiles nodded.

"But they stole it from the tree. This is the closest I can get to giving it back," said Stiles. "That's why they need the stolen stuff back, so they can plant more."

The mood from the dryads shifted and lightened and Clint could feel it. It bugged him. "Well hurry up then."

It took a few minutes for Stiles to climb back down, which Clint was okay with because he didn't want to have to try getting the EMTs out to the tree if the kid fell and broke his neck. He had no idea how to explain dryads to an EMT. He cracked up, however, when Derek tried to herd Stiles out of the clearing ahead of him and the impulsive teenager shoved the werewolf.

“You! Out! I can’t believe-”

Derek shoved him back. “ _You_ stole the offering!”

“I did not,” said Stiles, quieter in his disapproval, “I was making sure they got it before the fence came down.”

Derek’s expression went flat. “That was a glamour.”

Stiles tripped over his own feet. “Are you shitting me?”

Clint caught Stiles by the back of the jacket, half to keep him upright and half to get his attention. “No, he’s a wolf, in the sheriff’s territory, surrounded by currently appeased dryad, so could you two please hold off on the wedding for at least another fifty yards?”

 

***

 

John Watson watched the sun sink lower and lower and finally disappear beyond the trees. With it went the little warmth the car had to offer short of turning on the heater. He heaved a sigh and looked at his watch for what had to be the hundredth time in the past three hours.

“Is this normal for him?” asked Kyle McCall. The agent waved out the windshield at the old, dark house. “This insistence on rechecking everybody else’s work like this? I’ve had a dozen men in that place over the last week. It’s not like he’s going to find anything they haven’t already. Everything’s photographed, the evidence is all tagged and back at the station. This is a complete waste of time...”

“You don’t argue with a man’s process.” The angry retort politely made clear John’s irritation with the offense against Sherlock. “His track record would suggest his process works. And Sherlock is a very tactile person. A photograph provides someone else’s view of what is important to a scene. If that was enough, Sherlock’s services would not be needed at this stage.”

“It was two weeks ago, not six years,” said Kyle. “This stage isn’t that far along, considering.”

John looked over at Kyle, surprised and annoyed. “ _Considering_ my nephew’s involved smack in the middle of it, I would like it handled to the best of the investigative abilities available. Within two weeks time, so much environmental damage has already occurred, the scene is practically irretrievable. And please, two people were kidnapped. Your ex-wife was nearly murdered. _Considering_ that the longer this crime goes unevidenced, the longer she and my nephew are at risk by those responsible, I should think two weeks should be unacceptable. Sherlock has worked with less and found his man in one-tenth the time it’s taken you.”

“The evidence we’ve found indicates that Stiles killed someone, so would you rather I bump up the timeline and call it closed?” returned Kyle. “We got what we could from this scene, I’ve got men working the scene in Tahoe because there was just so much crap to sort through after the fire at the address Talia claims she was held at-”

“When the snow stops, we’re taking Sherlock to Tahoe,” cut in John, determined. “If it all hinges on Talia’s case, Sherlock should be working _that_ one.”

“Do you understand that you’re only here because Stilinski qualified you and Holmes as consultants to the _sheriffs_ department? You’re not federally cleared. I can’t just send you into Nevada-”

“When Sherlock gets back, we’ll get you your federal clearance,” muttered John. He looked at his watch again. Then he reached for the door handle. “I’m going to go see about what he’s found. I’ll be back.”

Kyle didn’t argue, nor did the man insist on going with him. Armed with his flashlight, John trudged across hard packed, half frozen ground and through spots of sticking snowfall to the house.

"Sherlock?" he called out at the door. Not that he expected an answer. It was Sherlock. The man was more likely to come round a corner and whisper boo! than he was to answer. So John switched off the torch, tugged off his gloves and pulled out his mobile.

_Where are you?_

Text message seemed to be Sherlock's preferred method of communication anyway. Sure enough, literally seconds later John got his response.

_Upstairs. First door, left._

Phone tucked away, gloves tugged back in place and the debris strewn floor once again safely illuminated, Watson headed up the stairs to follow the helpful directions. The stairs had suffered some weather damage but seemed mostly sound, despite the shattered state of the railing. Broken windows and fire damage had done the house in over the years, and it wasn't much warmer than it had been out in the car. He was just thinking he much preferred the company in the house to that in the car when he rounded a corner into the first door and nearly let out a yell of alarm. As it was, he still tripped over the actual body in the doorway but caught himself on a bookcase rather than fall on his face.

"Even with a torch you can't watch your step," clucked Sherlock. His tone was smug and John turned to see that Sherlock was the body in the doorway, the man's too-tall build slumped somehow comfortably against the door just inside the room. John glared at him, turned the flashlight on his own face for a moment to be sure that Sherlock saw his irritation.

"Were you napping?!" he demanded.

"I told you we were only here to waste time," replied Sherlock. "I found what I needed in the first two minutes. That left a lot of time to kill given that Melissa didn't know how long they would be gone."

"Oh my- _Sherlock_! I've been freezing and stuck in close quarters with that- that- _agent_ , and you're in here-" John squinted as Sherlock stood and started folding something up. "Is that a blanket?"

Sherlock shrugged his shoulders and tucked the folded blanket inside his jacket and under his arm. "Of course. Every police vehicle has one. I'm feeling rather the opposite of shocked, but it suited my purposes and kept me quite warm."

John muttered under his frosted breath and turned away before he throttled his friend for making him sit through three hours of small talk. McCall was as entertaining a conversationalist as paint.

“So what did you find?” John asked, even as he shined the flashlight around the room at the walls and remains of the abandoned room. It had long ago been picked clean by looters, if anything had been left by the family after the fire.

“I believe Derek Hale’s room,” said Sherlock. “I found a school ID card as a bookmark on the shelf, and the room has been occupied more recently than the rest of the house-”

“Yes, clearly by you, for the last three hours,” huffed John. “I meant what did you find in the first two _minutes_?”

Sherlock nodded obligingly. “Bullet holes in some charring on the wall. Basic trajectory would suggest the target was the floor. They missed and hit the wall, but, the floor would have been weakened. Whoever fired the shots is culpable, not the boy who fell.”

"So somewhere in the wood splinters they'll find more bullet holes and somewhere under it all they'll find bullets," said Watson. "They removed the body but didn't fully clear the scene. All the action was upstairs."

"Presumptive investigative work," sniffed Sherlock, annoyed.

"And now we can go back where it's warm and you can once again elaborate on all the reasons Agent McCall is an idiot," said John. He edged past Sherlock and then stopped and aimed the flashlight at him again. "But don't get us arrested. You need to get federal clearance so we can go to Tahoe."

"Three minute phone call," replied Sherlock.

John nodded his acceptance and turned away again to lead the way downstairs.

 

***

 

When Stiles was returned there was a noticeable relief among the group. Sheriff Stilinski was the first one to his kid, checking him over, getting a thorough hugging in, before turning him over to the rest of the group. Stiles stuck to Scott and Casey shadowed his son. Standing in Lydia’s living room, Mel caught everyone up on what had happened at the fence and Stiles chimed in with his experience dealing with dryad glamour. He was still mad that the fae had tried to use his mom’s image against him, and Derek noticed Casey’s quietly banked anger went up a notch when he heard about it. Derek kept his distance because of it, letting the family deal with it as they needed to.

Allison talked Lydia in to staying with her since her mom would be staying in Sacramento overnight and no one wanted Lydia at the house on her own until they were certain the dryads would keep their end of the arrangement. Derek actually relaxed as Lydia locked up the house ten minutes later. Given that he had run to Lydia’s hours earlier, he rode back to the McCall’s place with Stiles and Scott, the sheriff behind the wheel of his cruiser and suspiciously silent the whole time. Even Stiles picked up on the quiet. He slumped in the passenger seat and kicked at the dash. Scott looked over at Derek, like he wanted to ask what was going on, but Derek just shook his head at him. He didn’t have a clue, but he knew there were some silences that were best left uninterrupted.  
Talia planned to drop Cora and Peter at the apartment before bringing Mel back to her place, so Stilinski got there first. Out of the car it wasn’t so bad because the group split up, the sheriff going to take over the kitchen and Stiles and Derek following Scott up to his room to get away from it.

“What the hell was that about?” Scott asked quietly when the door was shut behind them. Stiles pulled a face and shrugged.

“He’s mad?” he offered up. Scott didn’t like that answer.

“About what? We won, it all worked out...”

Stiles shook his head. “I dunno, man. But he’ll get over it. He doesn’t get like this much.”

“You don’t piss him off like this that much,” clarified Derek. Caught out, Stiles nodded. It was verified a few minutes later when Mel got home.

“Stiles!” Melissa yelled, from what sounded like the front door. Derek looked over and swore Stiles was actually going to try hiding under the bed. Scott stared, wide-eyed, between the door and his friend.

“Are you _kidding_ me?” he whispered harshly. “You are so dead. I know that voice. She’s gonna _kill_.”

Stiles narrowed his eyes at Scott. “Thanks buddy, real helpful.”

A little concerned, Derek kept his attention on the sounds from downstairs. Stilinski had caught Mel at the base of the stairs and the two were having an impromptu parenting discussion that didn’t bode well for Stiles’ immediate future. The alpha wasn’t on board with the sheriff’s hands-off approach to Stiles’ disappearing act at Lydia’s. Derek looked back at Stiles to warn him.

“She isn’t letting this slide,” he said. “And it sounds like he’s agreeing with her.”

Offering a sage nod on the matter of his mom’s persuasive powers, Scott looked between Derek and Stiles.

“No, seriously, just go down there dude. You don’t want to make her track you down right now,” said Scott. “She just gets louder.”  
Stiles grabbed a RockBand guitar off the floor and started toying with it. “She’s not my mom,” Stiles reminded his friend. “She can’t yell at me for anything.”

“No, worse,” said Scott. “She’s an _alpha_. Your _dad’s_ alpha.”

That got through and Stiles looked up, suddenly showing signs of questioning his usual logic when it came to pissing off Melissa McCall. The _adorable-and-cute_ act might not cut it with her this time. Even he heard the steps on the stairs then. Derek sat at the foot of the bed, facing the door, and suddenly realized he was in the direct line of fire with Stiles sitting a foot or so behind him. Scott jumped out of the chair, distracting Derek from his own planned escape - he did _not_ sign on to play middleman for family squabbles - and the bedroom door opened. Mel stood holding the knob, looking quite annoyed.

“Give us the room,” said Melissa.

“Can I just, uh, object to that idea?” asked Stiles, sounding concerned. Mel raised an eyebrow at him.

“No.”

Scott headed for the door in a hurry and Derek followed without further question. They met Casey there and found Talia just then trotting up the stairs to fetch the extra witnesses away from the scene. Casey’s mood didn’t seem to have improved any but he nodded to Scott and Derek to steer them back downstairs. Scott disappeared quickly but Derek lurked on the top step near his mom. Talia noticed and shook her head, caught his arm to guide him away. The door closed behind Stilinski.

“This isn’t a pack matter,” Talia reminded Derek.

Pack matter or not, Derek still listened as best he could as Stiles was lectured, in stereo, by Casey and Mel. Apparently it was a shitty idea to lie about where he was going, and Stiles should have known better, and it was a bad idea to take on dryads on his own, and Stiles should have known better, and it was a stupider idea to forget the mistletoe if he was so set on doing stupid things, and Stiles should have known better. The refrain went on, in finer detail each time, but the chorus line was generally the same. Derek leaned against the counter in the kitchen by himself and let it sink in. The two parents were worried. The kitchen still smelled like fear over the scent of the sheriff’s coffee; they were angry because they had been scared.

After a few minutes, the door opened and footsteps trotted down the stairs. Derek scrambled to look like he was hanging out under Scott’s bedroom for a legitimate reason and ended up with a mug of coffee to hide behind. Casey saw him and slowed his steps but didn’t kick him out. But the sheriff wasn’t stupid, either. He jerked his head back toward the stairs.

“He’s not too old to be grounded,” he said. “And you’re old enough to respect that.”

Derek raised an eyebrow but nodded. Casey waved a hand dismissively.

“No pack stuff, no other stuff, unless it’s here or at my place. Keep the idiot out of trouble for at least two consecutive weeks without risking his damn life and _then_ he can talk to me about driving again or anything else.” The sheriff made the order mildly, quiet but determined. Then he took his travel mug of coffee that he had come in for and headed out again. “If anybody’s looking for me, I’m going to pick up John and Sherlock. We’ll be back in a half hour.”

As Casey left, Talia walked in and informed Derek he was helping her with dinner. About then, Mel started down the stairs too, probably headed for the kitchen. Derek muttered a quiet “yes ma’am” and didn’t argue as he was sent to make the BBQ on the covered back porch work despite the cold.

 

***

 

"Where the hell have you been?"

Stilinski paused at the door to glare at the ceiling as the unwanted voice of a former friend asked a very unwanted question. He managed to keep his game face and kept moving toward his office. Kyle stood at the door, arms crossed.

"The front desk said you left three hours ago," said Kyle, annoyed. "But you made me take Holmes to the Hale place..."

"Something came up and I had to get it taken care of before it turned into a big thing," said Casey. "This is how small towns work, Kyle. Not everything is on the books because we don't have the manpower or the resources and-"

"Bullshit, Stilinski. I am so tired of that line," said Kyle. And he was right. It was bullshit. And Casey realized suddenly that he didn't know why he was even bothering. He crossed his arms and squared his shoulders.

"Okay fine. I wasn't here manning the desk and waiting on calls. Why? Because I was out taking care of problems that our kids started. Specifically, _your_ kid screwed up and _my_ kid made it _worse_ trying to cover for him, and that had to get taken care of. So was I supposed to make a federal case out of it? Or is it alright that I took a few hours personal time?"

"Don't blame Scott for your smart-ass delinquent screwing up." Kyle scowled a good game but he was nowhere near as mad as Casey had been before even walking in the room.

"I'm not. I'm telling you they are kids, they needed help, and Melissa and I did that thing parents sometimes have to do for their kids. You know, like _show up_?" said Casey harshly. "I get that's not a familiar concept for you, and I really don't care how you choose to deal with your kid because he's doing just fine with Mel. But don't even try to tell me you know the first thing about what your son is capable of. Good or bad, across the board, you _will_ be wrong. So for everybody's sake, don't try to start that fight. Not with me."

Kyle's jaw twitched and he glanced around the bullpen to take stock of who was witnessing the outburst. Casey sighed and shook his head.

"I'm here to pick up John and Sherlock. Then I'm gone for the rest of the day. We'll pick it up in the morning," he said. The two Englishmen appeared at the door then, coats and scarves on. Sherlock handed a print-out to Kyle as he stepped out of the office.

"You left your computer on and received an email. As it is the proof of clearance you requested, I took the liberty of printing it out," said Sherlock, his tone flat from banked anger. He arranged his coat as he spoke, not having much patience with Kyle. "So I expect tomorrow we'll be taking a trip to Tahoe?"

Kyle looked the paper over, too distracted by Stilinski's lecture to focus on the words printed on it.

"I'll assume that's a yes," said Sherlock. "We'll leave at 8am."

Casey huffed, amused, but he didn't argue on it. He turned then to head out. They would be there in the morning. And with any luck, the sheriff would have a better rein on his temper in the morning. A clean start would be the best thing for everyone.

 

***


	22. Chapter 22

Casey Stilinski tried, but despite the effort, his son still beat him to the door. It was after seven and had been two hours since Stiles was told he was grounded. The kid had his hour to cool off, and then his hour to scheme, and now he was on the start of a very long rebound of nothing but rebellion. Stilinski had seen the script many times before and knew the race for answering the front door was only the start of the first act. Resigned, Casey allowed it but still stood behind his son as they peered out onto the yellow glow on the front porch. He didn’t expect to see the person who had knocked on the door to be quite so familiar.

"Uncle Cole! What are you- wait. Huh?" Stiles stared at the man in the suit at the McCall's front door. "Two questions: one, did you forget where we live again? And B, what's with the tie? Are you working? I have totally not been that busy that I missed that announcement. Spill, man."

"Yes, I'm working," smiled the man. He removed his sunglasses and folded them neatly away into his jacket pocket. "But you haven't missed the announcement. It's a TV show now. We’re keeping it under wraps for the moment..."

"What! When! Why didn't you tell me- come on, you can't figure out email even now that it's on your phone?"

"He has agents for that," said Casey. The sheriff stood behind his son, grinning at his half-brother over Stiles' shoulder. He shoved Stiles aside gently to wave "Uncle Cole" inside. The man in the suit accepted a warm hug from Casey and a hurried one from Stiles.

By then the foyer had gathered a crowd and a few introductions had to be made. To everyone's surprise and no one's comment, Sherlock Holmes and Stiles' uncle nodded each other's acknowledgement briefly before Sherlock returned to the kitchen.

"Hey! You gotta meet- hey! Derek! Come here!" Stiles disappeared into the kitchen to hunt down Derek and Scott in the back yard. Sheriff Stilinski looked to his brother, an eyebrow raised.

"What brings you to town, Coulson?" he asked. "I thought you said it would be better if you stayed out of our little mess here in Beacon Hills?"

"Ah, well, it would be. So for the moment, I am. But-"

"Aw damn. You're here about the car, aren't you?" came Clint Barton's voice from the living room.

Stilinski and Coulson looked over at the pair suddenly standing beside a clueless John Watson in the doorway. Phil Coulson smiled at them with his best grimacing-gameface.

"The car is exactly why I am here," said Coulson. He turned to the sheriff. "Did you know that computers in cars now send emails to their owners warning of potential driving hazards in the system operations? And of course the GPS LoJack service is all but standard in Audi ownership."

"Ah, yeah, I heard about that detail," said the sheriff. "I think now is an _excellent_ time for me to excuse myself from this conversation."

"That's not fair at all," said Clint. He pointed Coulson's attention to the retreating sheriff. "It was his kid who wrecked it."

The sheriff turned back quickly. "Wait. My son did _what_ now?"

Coulson frowned. "Well that makes things difficult. But I think, in the interests of everyone involved, I'll be taking the car back to Mr. Stark now."

" _How_ difficult?" asked Stilinski. "And _how_ did my kid get to wreck an Audi."

"He stole it." To his credit, Clint wasn’t exactly bragging about it.

Casey glared at Clint for not mentioning that detail much sooner. "He _what_!"

Talia rushed in from the kitchen then, clasping the shocked sheriff's arm to drag his attention away from the discussion. "Mel and I will tell you later. But it _was_ an emergency..."

"Ohmygod." Stilinski and Watson both spoke up at once. One of them stared at the ceiling in anguish while the other crossed his arms and reached a hand up to pinch the bridge of his nose.

Stiles slid back into the room then, dragging Derek and Scott with him. Scott waved at Coulson and the man in the suit offered a familiar smile in return. Stiles noticed his father and his uncle John glaring at him suddenly and, apparently not knowing why, put them on ignore. Casey rolled his eyes and reminded himself that he couldn’t ground his son twice in the same day. Stiles obliviously caught Derek’s shoulder and introduced him to his other uncle.

“Uncle Cole’s an actor,” said Stiles, totally okay with boasting about it. “He’s in that movie we watched awhile ago with your mom and everybody...”

Stiles stopped talking suddenly and narrowed his eyes as he saw his uncle standing within feet of Melissa’s house guests. Despite himself, Casey smirked and crossed his arms as he saw the light bulb slowly click on in his son’s head. All Stiles ever needed was the proper context to put the clues together in, and after ten years of this game, Stiles finally had the full picture standing right in front of him.

“This’ll be good,” Casey remarked quietly to John. Stiles didn’t notice, just stared between the three with his jaw hanging open like he forgot how it worked.

“Oh shit,” said Stiles after a moment. “I wrecked your car...”

“Actually, Peter did,” offered up Derek, slowly but slightly more intelligently catching on. Talia put a hand on his arm.

“Don’t help, sweetie,” she said quietly. Scott nodded his agreement.

“It wasn’t actually my car,” said Clint. Before he could taunt the teenager any further, Coulson cut in.

“No, it wasn’t,” he agreed. “And Tony said to send his thanks.”

“Told you,” said Natasha, nudging Clint’s shoulder. He didn’t get to enjoy the relief long.

“Pepper said to inform you that she knows who’s brilliant idea it was to steal the car in the first place, and she’s not amused by the fact that you went along with it,” said Coulson. Natasha coughed out a laugh.

“That’s bull-”

“No, it’s perfect and exactly what happened and you will never suggest otherwise, ever again,” said Clint quickly, smiling innocently at her. “Ever. Especially around Pepper.”

Natasha rolled her eyes. Stiles stared between them like a spectator at the US Open, jaw slack and attention darting from left to right vacantly.

“But... Your name is Clint. Are you just _really_ into the role or... what?” asked Stiles. Stilinski had never seen his son so dumbfounded - well, not since that one time when he was eight and was convinced he’d trapped the Easter Bunny in the shed - and had to hide a smug grin.

“His name is Clint Barton,” said Phil patiently. “He has done some acting for us...”

“Us?” squeaked Stiles, looking back at his uncle as the gears seemed to unstick in his head and start moving again. “Now wait a minute... you’re _just_ an _actor_.”

Phil wavered a moment before deciding to finally, after literally years of maintaining a complicated cover story, loop his nephew into the grand conspiracy.

“Hypothetically speaking, Stiles, if you were to accidentally destroy a small town in the middle of the desert, and then lay waste to New York City, the best way to keep questions from being asked by the multitude of witnesses would be to employ actors and call it a movie production. Correct?”

Stiles thought it over before gradually nodding his head. “Hide it in plain sight. Nobody will notice. Except the crackpots and the alien-abduction cases.”

“So with a little CGI, small scale altercations can become blockbusters. Blockbusters can become TV shows. There’s significantly fewer questions that way,” said Phil.

“This is the part where you tell us not to tell anyone or someone ends up dead, right?” asked Scott, completely sold on the story. Phil made a face and Casey figured then that, as sheriff, he was a little too familiar with the various criminal elements in Melissa’s foyer just then. He edged by Talia to collect his son by the back of the neck and steer him out of the room before he got any more brilliant ideas himself. Stiles stammered out a half-hearted protest.

“But... I gotta know if... is Tom Hiddleston really Loki?”

It was loud enough that Coulson heard and said casually, “I would heavily suggest you get out of any army the man may have formed on the internet.”

Stiles tripped over his own two feet and would have gone sprawling if Scott and Derek weren’t faster than Casey.

 

***

 

After the chaos of the Christmas season thus far, if John needed anything in his life, it was a good strong drink. That was not something his teenaged nephew could procure for him, however quite delinquent he had been recently. As John and Sherlock collected their coats to leave with the others, he spied Derek Hale loitering for the same reason, waiting for his mother and sister. Did werewolves and the neighborhood dogs get drunk? Hmm. Settled on finding out, John stepped over and plucked the keys to Talia's SUV out of Derek's hand, relatively easy since he had surprised him.

"Here. You're not driving," John told Derek as he handed the keys over to an equally surprised Talia. Derek blinked at him. Stiles stood across the hall and gaped like a fish.

"What?" asked Derek.

John nodded and looked his nephew's would-be paramour in the eye. "Sherlock said it was your birthday."

"Yesterday," Derek said cautiously. John looked around the hall for another representative of the guests crowded elsewhere in the McCall house.

"And did anybody around here take you out for it?" John asked. The look Derek gave him then was obviously questioning his sanity.

"Nobody's old enough."

John nodded at the expected answer. "Well then. Let's go have a drink then."

Sherlock stood by, smug and yet somehow disinterested. The man really didn't know what to do with vacation time. John looked to him for protest to the idea of a night at the pub and was quite pleased to see there was none. He looked to Derek then, the young man locked in a glaring match with Stiles.

"What?" John asked. "You're old enough. As I understand it, he's not. Don't expect the seventeen year old to get you out of it."

"It's not really his scene, Uncle John..."

Sherlock shrugged. He said to Derek, "Perhaps if you go along, John will have a few drinks and ramble. He's a cheap drunk, really. It's likely the only way you'll get anything out of him."

John and Stiles both looked to Sherlock in alarm. "What?" they asked in unison.

Sherlock nodded to Derek. "Did Stiles ever mention he was named for his uncle? They both seem to hate the homage."

As Talia hid a smile behind her hand, Derek broke into a dangerous grin. Stiles shook his head and pointed a finger, warning the wolf.

"No," he said. He turned to his uncle and repeated the admonition. "Do _not_."

"I haven't had a drink in a while," said Derek. He nodded toward Stiles. "You've had one since me. I guess it won't kill me."

John herded Sherlock and Derek toward the door before Stiles could pry Derek away. The teen stood behind Talia at the door and called after them, "Famous freaking last words!"

 

***

 

Bars weren't a new experience for Derek, despite his age. He had a fake ID within months of his family's death and was Laura's wingman and taxi for years. But sitting at a sportsman’s pub with his mom? That was a new one. Being treated as an adult instead of grouped in with the teenagers, having a drink put in his hand by his mother, that was just surreal.

The table was crowded, with three Hales, Mel, Casey, his brother in law and Sherlock, and Mel's two house guests. Chris was supervising Lydia and Allison around the two Winchesters and wouldn't be showing up, which made it a little easier to relax. It took Derek awhile to realize that he sat beside Mel and the new alpha would occasionally shoot him the most suspicious once-over ever given. Considering everything that had gone on in the last year, that was saying something.

Talia noticed one of the looks and laughed. "I told you," she said to her son, grinning behind her drink. Derek finished his beer and moved off to buy another one before Mel finally said something. When he came back, he made sure to sit on the other side of his mother. John Watson was a lot less intimidating, even if he was still a member of Stiles' actual family. John was happy to banter and small talk in his funny accent and Derek actually laughed once or twice. Then he realized the man seated across from him wasn't as entertained and, rather than provoke Sherlock Holmes into blunt and awkward observations, Derek stayed quiet. His mother abandoned him in search of a refill and a moment later, Mel slid down the bench to sit beside Derek again.

"Okay," she announced, "You have some explaining to do."

"Wha-" Derek almost choked on his drink.

"I was informed today," said Mel calmly, "That John's nephew is not-dating a neighborhood dog."

Beside him, John suddenly realized he needed a refill too and Derek figured he knew where Mel had gotten the information. Derek set his jaw and stared off at the wall, not sure yet what to do with being ambushed by the territorial alpha on a sensitive subject. Mel didn't mind, seemed to take his quiet as confirmation. She leaned an elbow on the table in front of them and looked openly at Derek.

"Uh huh, so I'm going to say something. The only thing I'm going to on the subject," she warned him. "Stiles has had a bad month. And you know it better than I do. So you both deserve to go out, have a good time, _do_ the dating thing, damnit. Like normal people do."

That wasn't what Derek had expected and he peeked over at her. She nodded to show she meant it.

"But I swear if that kid gets hurt, or turned into a wolf, or any other supernatural entity because a date gets a little rowdy? Scott and Isaac will wipe the floor with you before sunrise the next day."

Derek snorted and took another drink. That was more along the lines of what he had been expecting. He nodded and set the bottle on the table.

"Not to mention the sheriff," he reminded her. " _And_ my mother. Yes, I'm aware."

Melissa smiled at him, proud. "Good! Then you two kids have fun." She paused before adding, “ _After_ he’s done being grounded for his own good.”

Derek rolled his eyes and was glad the pub had crappy lighting because his face was warming. He thought he had dodged the worst of it and then Sherlock cleared his throat. The investigator looked like he had a buzz going. Derek's manners wouldn't let him just stand up and leave, since his mom would then get on his case about _that_. He couldn't even go out for a drink without picking his battles, apparently, so Derek waited as Sherlock contemplated whatever he was about to add.

"As young Stiles matters to John, I find he matters to me. As such, if I, or by extension John, think for even a second that you are taking advantage of the boy, I will bring the full weight of the Holmes name and a myriad of talented contacts to the cause of... Making your life particularly miserable." Sherlock ended on a dry smile, which only made the threat seem real. Derek blinked at him.

"On one hand, I want to tell you to ignore him because he's had a few drinks," said John Watson as the man sat back down beside Derek, distracting him. John offered a friendly smile and slid a drink to him. "But I really can't. It's the principle of the thing. My little sister's boy."

Derek looked from John to Mel, noting then that the conversation had caught Casey's attention. He raised an eyebrow.

"Anything to add to the ambush?" Derek invited patiently. Casey seemed amused and shrugged, waved it off.

"Nah, I think they got this covered," he said. Derek agreed with the understatement and took up his drink.

"Good. Then I'd just like to point out, Stiles would kick your asses for every word of this entire conversation," he said. "So, assuming you’re done now, I won't tell him if you don't."

 

***

 

Casey shook his head as he listened to Clint finish up another story. It turned out the man was full of them. He was full of something else, too, but that wasn't worth mentioning considering they were getting free entertainment out of the deal. The sheriff stuck with coffee just to make sure Mel didn't drink anything stronger than her pain meds. And drinking wasn't that much fun for him. Listening to the buzzed stories of people who worked for his brother was a lot of fun though. Clint tended to end his stories with "and then we won. The end."

"So you still haven't told me how you and Melissa met," Natasha reminded him. Casey perked up and seconded that. Melissa smirked and leaned into Casey's shoulder as she looked across the table at Clint. She shrugged at him.

"Well. It was a long time ago. Like, ten or eleven years ago now?" He looked to Melissa for confirmation and she nodded.

"About a year after the divorce," she said for Casey's benefit. He seemed to remember something from back then but accepted it and looked back to Clint.

"It was before I worked for, well, your brother, I guess? And I had taken this... Job..." Clint stopped and looked between Natasha and the only sheriff present and Casey knew well enough that he didn't want to ask. "And it went a little sideways on me. I ended up in the hospital on accident-"

"On _accident_ , because everyone else _plans_ to end up there," said Mel, rolling her eyes. "It was the first time I had ever seen a gunshot wound outside of a cadaver."

"I remember that," said Casey, surprised. "I was assigned to our detective at the time. He was mad as anything that there had been a shooting on his watch. And when we got to the hospital to find out what the hell that was about, the gunshot victim had already gone, flown the coop AMA."

"I didn't exactly want to make a report," said Clint helpfully. "Nothing personal."

Melissa carried on with the story. "And then I got off my shift and caught him trying to steal my car-"

"No, I told you, I was only borrowing it-"

"Right."

Casey arched an eyebrow, curious despite his professional sense that told him he was way too far in to this discussion of compounded illegal activities. "Why?"

"Well, remember how I said my job went sideways? You and Detective Canton weren't the only ones in the hospital looking for me. I kinda needed to leave before things got ugly."

"And I spent half the day absolutely clueless and driving him around from one place to another," said Melissa, shaking her head. "He told me he was a student who didn't have insurance and couldn't stay at the hospital. Too broke."

"Yeah, that was a lie," smirked Clint.

"I don't feel so bad now about my son wrecking the car you stole," observed Casey dryly.

"Hey, it all worked out. She was fine," said Clint.

"Let's not start on the _what-ifs_ of the scenario," replied Casey. Melissa brightened.

"Oh, you mean what if we were followed? Or what if I couldn't go home because of it? Or what if I spent an hour in the preserve waiting for the all clear and got stuck hitting some thug over the head with a branch when he didn't go down from the mace?"

Casey stared at her, jaw slack. "Yeah. _Those_ what-ifs."

"Don't corner the woman," said Clint. "It was cute."

Casey wanted to protest the man's definition of cute under those situations, but he met Mel's eyes, saw her smiling about it, saw she was proud of her younger self. She apparently approved of Clint's terminology. Casey shook his head and allowed a grin to overtake his concern.

"Compared to wolves, that was nothing," Mel said.

"Batting practice?" Casey suggested. Mel nodded approvingly.

"Exactly."

 

***


	23. Chapter 23

The problem with telling Stiles Stilinski that he couldn't so something was that he would then have every incentive to make sure he could do it. Even if it was simple logic - for instance, "don't hang around with werewolves because it could get you killed" was basic common sense at this point after all of the near-misses, - Stiles had to subvert it. Answer the Econ paragraph essay with a five page paper on male circumcision, harbor the wanted fugitive in his-father-the-sheriff's house. Freely antagonize bad guys with guns and wolf-teeth. By all means, Not-date the no-longer fugitive who happens to be a werewolf. Get grounded and sneak off to the not-date's loft because it was left off the short list of approved places to be. Which was the most likely reason Derek looked up from his computer screen to see Stiles walking into the loft at just after eleven PM. (After curfew.)

"Excuse me!" Peter's voice echoed in the quiet as the man trotted down the stairs. "Who gave you a key?"

Derek blinked back at the slowly developing scene. Stiles stared at Peter, surprised.

"Uh. Derek did," he said. "Like, six months ago? When I was helping him and Isaac and sometimes needed to pick stuff up for them... Seriously you're only just now noticing this?"

Peter grumbled about beauty sleep and curfews for a moment before Derek told him off. The seasonal grump stole a carton of ice cream from the freezer and went back upstairs. When Stiles crashed onto the couch next to Derek, he was practically gloating.

“You don’t look very drunk,” he said, taunting.

"I’m not. You don’t look very grounded," said Derek.

"Rumors of my adherence to societal norms are greatly exaggerated," replied Stiles. "If I were to actually do the whole _grounded_ thing I think my dad would have a heart attack. So really this is my effort at public service."

"Right. Or it's your effort at getting me killed for the aiding and abetting of a delinquent minor," said Derek. Stiles grinned slyly.

"Sorry, can you repeat that?" he asked, smug. "I heard the word _bed_ in there, got distracted."

Despite his best efforts, Derek grinned. He reined it in before it could go to Stiles' ego. But he also shut the laptop and shoved it onto the coffee table, so there was a mixed signal there. Stiles really didn’t like it when Derek again reminded him he was grounded and not supposed to be at the loft. It took some convincing after that to prove he wasn’t taking sides, he just didn’t want Casey and Mel mad at the both of them over a reckless call that had turned out alright. No matter how much effort Derek put in toward not _saying_ the wrong thing, Stiles was Stiles: he was most easily convinced by being caught around the shoulders and kept in close space. Eventually Stiles caught on and he relaxed.

"Then I _can_ stay here?"

"Sure, for an hour, and then you do what they asked," said Derek. "Go to Scott’s or something. If you're there then at least Melissa knows you're okay."

Stiles collapsed dramatically across Derek's lap, dragging him down with him. "You’re not taking sides, you’re just a sympathizer... There are varying _levels_ of _traitor_ involved."

"Sure, fine, we'll go with that," said Derek, smirking into Stiles' shoulder. "Considering I'm the only one present who has ever been unjustly arrested, I think that's accurate."

Stiles squinted at him over his shoulder. "In my defense, you were scary." He hugged Derek's arm and the leg he was sprawled on. "And hot. It was a good look, not even gonna lie."

"You know your dad knows where you are, right?" asked Derek. “He figured it out. He’s going to show up and arrest me again for kidnapping or something-”

"Seriously? Talking about or to my dad is not why I came here tonight," said Stiles. "The exact opposite. Or even further from exact opposite, ‘cause I was thinking, like, on the booty call spectrum. That could be awesome."

Derek tightened his arms in a playful headlock. "I have a roommate and no bedroom so it wasn't for that."

"Okay, so I didn't think it out all the way," said Stiles. "But it worked out in my head completely awesome."

"I'm betting that happens a lot. You should take it in to consideration with future schemes." Derek sat up and reached for his laptop again. He slowly pried his arm free and waited for Stiles to sit up. When he didn’t, he became a laptop table without a second’s thought. Stiles tolerated that for a moment probably more out of reverence for all things technological than any casual acceptance of becoming furniture. Then he started to sit up and Derek had to catch the computer to keep it from ending up on the floor. Stiles tried to pry the laptop away but it didn’t work. He looked worried and Derek started to stress a little, just as confused as ever about what he really wanted out of life when all Stiles had to do was frown at him to cause a _panic_.

“Am I supposed to be catching a hint, here?” Stiles asked. “This stuff about my dad, and all. You’ve been weird since... shit, did they say something?”

Derek frowned and shook his head. Then he paused and shrugged. “Sherlock actually did mention something about having contacts and I’m pretty sure that was supposed to be a _threat_ , but... not what I’m worried about.”

“I think if my dad was going to shoot you, he would have by now-”

“That’s not-”

“Then what?”

“I don’t know! Okay? Otherwise I’d have said something _by now_ , but I don’t,” said Derek. He was literally cornered in the couch, with a laptop for a shield against a kid just a few years younger than him who wasn’t even a wolf, and the only explanation he could come up with was that he was scared. That didn’t make any damn sense at all and it frustrated him, made him angry. He turned his glare to the laptop rather than Stiles. “Just don’t worry about it. I’ll figure it out.”

Stiles backed off enough to let him breathe. “I kinda get the impression you’ve been trying to figure it out since I got here, man. What’s going on? Did I do something wrong?”

“No, I think I-” Derek shook his head. “You didn’t do anything wrong. I don’t know what’s going on. I just have to figure it out.”  
Stiles sunk back against the couch, staring at Derek. “So that’s it?”

“No, that’s... _So_ don’t make me try to answer things I don’t know.”

“I am so confused,” said Stiles. “Am I supposed to leave?”

“Not for an hour,” Derek said quickly. He glanced over at Stiles, worry carefully kept in check. “Unless you want.”

The frustrated Stiles squinted over at him. “Ohmygod I hate you sometimes.”

Derek stared back at him. “Yeah, I know.”

“The whole wolfy unreadable thing, just. Ugh.” Stiles pulled a face and waved his hands, stuck and confused and frustrated and Derek knew exactly how that felt. He was surprised though when instead of getting up to leave, Stiles stretched out on the couch and shoved the computer out of the way enough to use Derek’s thigh as a pillow. Seconds later, as Derek was still blinking at the unexpected forgiveness, Stiles reached up and kidnapped the computer from his hands. It settled in Stiles’ lap against his thighs and he was automatically downsizing screens to find his own entertainment.

“I get an hour then,” he announced stubbornly. “Don’t mess with me. And _you_ figure out how I’m getting to Scott’s.”

Derek blinked at him. There was a moment of quiet and then Stiles looked up at him.

“And we’re doing stuff on New Years. Whether you’ve got it figured out or not,” he said. A slow smile hit Derek’s face and he nodded.

 

***

 

Stiles spent a pitiful fifteen minutes blatantly browsing the saved bookmarks without the slightest protest from Derek. It was probably the most enlightening fifteen minutes of silence ever spent with the man, but nothing scandalous. There was snark about the werewolf porn being on Peter's computer, but Stiles wasn't curious enough to go find out if that was a real thing. Then he fell asleep and lost all future rights to the laptop when he nearly dropped it.

Scott showed up to pick him up at midnight on the nose, a little less than the full promised hour, but Stiles was drowsy and didn't argue. There was no way he was crashing somewhere without a locked door between him and Peter, just on principle. Derek stayed quiet as he locked up after Stiles and Scott left and the two friends continued the quiet all the way down to the car. Only there, well out of hearing range in the parking lot, did Scott bother to explain the faces he had been making at Stiles since he showed up.

"You okay?" Scott asked from the driver's side. Stiles shrugged and scrubbed tiredly at his face as he waited for Scott to get in the car to unlock the passenger door.

"Yeah, fine. Less laid than I wanna be but that's usual."

Scott rolled his eyes but he didn't do more than lean on his own open door. He waved a hand toward the building they had just left. "Yeah but that wasn't normal Derek back there. He's... Like broken or something."

That got Stiles’ attention and he woke up a little more, blinked at Scott in confusion. "Huh?"

Again Scott pointed in the general direction of the loft. "He wasn't angry. Not even just, you know, annoyed. He had to text me to come get you so your dad didn’t kill him. He should have been _something_ other than so calm he's asleep on his feet. Are you sure he got rid of the poinsettia?"

Stiles scoffed and dismissed it, tugging on the door handle until Scott got the hint. His friend finally let him in where it was warmer just to make him answer the question. Then Stiles waved him off again.

"Dude, we're not you and Allison. I can't read his mind or _smell_ his _moods_. He's wound up about something and says he will tell me when he figures it out. I'm letting him _figure it out_."

To his credit, Scott started the car up while he argued. "But I just told you, he _wasn't_ wound up. That is, like, the opposite of what that was."

Confused, Stiles rolled his eyes at the windshield. "So see? All good. Why is everyone in my face about this? He only stopped hating me three weeks ago."

“That’s _why_ everyone’s in your face about it! We’re kinda... I dunno, _worried_?” said Scott with his usual bluntness. "Derek's old. You're not. He’s wolf. You’re not. You’ve both wanted to _kill_ each other in the very recent past. That's bad. You could make sure your dad's okay with it or something?"

On one level it made sense and Stiles could roll with it, on another, he couldn’t, because nobody got to tell him what to do unless he was in a mood to be told. Scott included, and the rule applied most especially to werewolves. He twisted in his seat to look at his friend more directly and clear the whole thing up. "Okay, he's not old... _Old-er_ , not old. The killing thing was always more... hyperbole. And so what? It's not like anything's changed. He's him, I'm me. Surprisingly still the same, ."

Scott nodded sarcastically. "Yeah, you’re the one who was all convinced he’d killed people.”

“First impressions,” said Stiles with a shrug of his shoulders. “Not my fault he plays a good creeper.”

Scott stopped a little hard at a red light and stared at Stiles like he was missing something quite obvious. “You wanted to have him killed. This is traditionally not how good relationships start.”

Stiles nodded. “Not traditional. So it sounds about on par for something I’d do, right? The second I start losing my mind like you did for Allison is the second I have myself committed."

"I didn't-" Scott’s denial was short lived, falling silent with hardly a glare from Stiles. Stiles could have launched into a long list of times Scott had done something stupid in the name of love but Scott shook his head and moved on before he had to bother. His attention returned to the road as they continued home but Scott wasn’t dropping the subject. "Okay fine but that's just... That's what you do. People go crazy when they hook up. There's a scientific reason for it. Chemical reaction."

"Dude. No. Crazy-stupid is not how we work." Stiles totally didn’t count buying people flat screen TVs and iPods for their birthdays as stupid. Scott just nodded at him.

"Yeah and that's _weird_."

"What?"

"I mean. It's weird that _nothing_ is different for you."

"So now I'm the broken one?" asked Stiles. He wasn’t sure if he was allowed to be offended or not, but he was feeling protective and defensive and Scott really wasn’t helping that at all.

Scott frowned over at him. "No, I just mean maybe it's not the same thing. Maybe it's a pack thing. Or maybe it's the poinsettia thing."

Stiles pulled a face and almost laughed. He shook his head just to further dismiss the idea. "Just because you didn't notice exactly _when_ the guy hit me like a ton of bricks doesn't mean it's a pack thing. It just means I had to deal with it longer than you did with Allison."

Scott’s jaw dropped and Stiles had to point out the windshield to make sure the driver still watched the road. "Are you serious- wait. Is that why you sicced _your dad_ on him?"

The question hadn’t been expected, or ever really considered in that light before, and Stiles slumped in his seat. “Maybe, I dunno,” he said as he thought it over. Then he shrugged. “How was I supposed to know the difference between the _bad-guy-vibe_ and the _bad-boy-kink_? I'd never thought I met a murderer before."

"Ohmy god. Did you tell him that?" Scott looked about to let go of the wheel and it was all too easy to see them dying in a fireball because Scott started laughing his ass off while driving. Stiles distractedly tried pointing his attention back to the road.

"No, I haven’t..."

"Can _I_?" asked Scott. He was way too eager about it and Stiles narrowed his eyes at him.

"I know where you sleep and I know how to kill werewolves, so think very carefully about that choice before you make it."

 

***


	24. Chapter 24

December 27th

The preserve was the last place anyone wanted to be the day after dealing with dryads. Surrounded by trees, walking through mud and thawing hard pack clay, even with the sun showing up between clouds every so often, the woods just felt ominous. Dean kept looking over his shoulder whenever he thought he saw an oak tree. And if the Stilinski kid said that birch trees were bitches, he had no reason to doubt it and no real inclination to find out for himself. Dean had done his tour of duty with the fae and didn't want to risk getting drafted into another one with tree-people. But he did want to know what made Beacon Hills its own Supernatural-Vegas hell. If the Argents could clear that up, the Winchester brothers would certainly sleep easier at night. Besides, Dean had given up the idea of a peaceful vacation in Beacon Hills and Chris said the easy-answer was on their way out of town.

A great big tree stump a hundred yards from the highway out of town was definitely not something Dean expected to be the source of the trouble.

"Why don't you just have it chipped up and yanked out?" Dean asked.

"We tried that when we first cut it down," said Chris, frowning. "They went down under the tree and started cutting up the roots at the source. But they just grew back."

"Woah," muttered Dean. Sam had been about to set his hand on the table-like surface of the stump but the news made him take a step back.

"It has to do with the currents," said Allison. "They carry energy and the tree feeds off of them, stores energy of its own, and we think it feeds that back into the currents."

"I think there might be another Nemeton in the area here, too," added Chris. "The currents change and shift, trade off directions sometimes. Like they're caught and pivot off the tree maybe. So if there's more than one, it would explain that."

Sam made a face at the tree stump as he crouched beside it. "This thing is practically ancient. What did you mean they cut the roots from underneath?"

"Here, I'll show you," said Chris. He nodded to Allison and the pair started kicking through dead leaves in search of something. "It used to have a cellar under it. It was more or less destroyed around thanksgiving, but I can at least show you what to look for."

"You think we'll find these trees in other places, like, across the map?" asked Sam. Chris nodded. Apparently all it took for magic trees was a water source nearby, a root cellar for storing and performing spells in, and a group of _whatever's_ to pray at it long enough. Dean didn't really like the sound of that.

About that time, Allison found what they were looking for and pried at a storm-door not far from the tree. "Uh... Dad? This isn't right."

Dean and Sam followed the Argents and they all crowded at the storm-door.

"Looks like a cellar to me," said Dean helpfully. "What's the problem?"

"This was all buried under dirt, completely collapsed last we saw," said Allison. She looked to her dad uncertainly. "Why would somebody fix it again?"

"Maybe the tree did it," suggested Sam. Dean scoffed. "No, I mean it. Look how close they are. If the roots go down into the cellar? Maybe it was just... Taking care of itself."

There was a long quiet before Dean shook his head. "It's a tree," he pointed out. “Trees like dirt.”

"Would the dryads have done this? Fixed it up for some reason?" asked Allison, concerned.

"It's a cellar," said Dean. "They have absolutely zero need for it when they have their own happy fairy-land inside their trees."

Chris shook his head. "Aside from that, we would have had run-ins with them long before now if they claimed the nemeton as theirs," he said.

"It's unclean," realized Sam suddenly. He looked over at Chris. "They don't like Druids, right? Or werewolves or banshees. If this is some kind of beacon for the supernatural, the energy in this area wouldn't agree with the dryads at all."

"So what did it?" Allison asked.

"Probably just who," said Chris. He didn't look happy about it but he shut the door and backed off. "It's a lot of work. So my guess is whoever put it there in the first place fixed it up. A coven or something, maybe."

"That's not a good thing," Sam pointed out, frowning. Chris nodded.

"I know. We'll keep an eye on it. But a dark Druid destroyed it. Maybe it's some kind of territorial thing. There is no way to know."

"I don't exactly want to poke at rattlesnake nests," said Allison. "If it's not a problem yet, I don't really want to turn it into one."

Dean looked from the cellar doors to the tree. He caught Sam doing the same thing and exchanged a worried glance.

"Freakin trees now," said Dean, annoyed. "Everything else we've got on our caseload and we have to start looking out for trees."

 

****

 

It wasn't raining this time as the '67 Impala cruised down the lonely two lane highway out of town. The radio came in clear, but the driver shut it off after just a few miles.

"Did you notice it was a full moon on Christmas?" Sam finally asked, thoughtful as he stared out the window and chewed at his nails. Dean sighed and kept his attention on the road.

"I might have. Maybe," he said.

"And they're just a bunch of kids," said Sam. Dean nodded.

"Evil filthy kids."

Sam rolled his eyes but didn't comment on that. "But they didn't hurt anybody."

"Wrong! That Stiles kid hit somebody with a car," said Dean. "That counts."

"Yes, I get it, kids are evil. Can we get back on to my point?" asked Sam. "They're not actually the kind of evil we need to do anything about. The only one who hurt anybody happened to be all-human."

"If this is your effort at forcing an existential crisis over our career path, it's not going to work. I've been through too much crap." The refusal was backed by a shake of his head. "I don't want no heebiejeebie feelings attacking me next time I gotta do what I do. This was a vacation. We're back to work now. What happens in Beacon Hills stays in Beacon Hills."

Sam looked back out the window, mulling it over. "Yeah. I think we should... I dunno, label it a big black hole on the map and stay away."

"Right," agreed Dean. "Just drive right on through. The last thing we need are more frenemies. Werewolves we can't gank are not okay with me right now. Vacation, fine. Right now? Nope."

"Yeah, exactly," said Sam. He could get behind that idea. It made him feel at least a little better. "Problem solved."

The ride went quiet again, just the road noise for ambiance as they retreated into their own heads. Then Sam's phone went off, announcing a text. He checked it and then swore, leaned against the door to pound his head lightly against the window.

"What?" asked Dean.

"Stiles gave Talia our numbers," said Sam. Dean tried to stay stoic but then cracked.

"Actually, that might have been me," he said carefully. "What did I do?"

"Well, Talia just texted me the recipe for that pie you went apeshit over," said Sam. Dean's eyes bugged.

"Are you kidding? Write that shit down! Do not lose it!"

Sam rolled his eyes. "You don't cook, Dean. You definitely can't bake. Also there's the detail that we don't actually live anywhere with a kitchen."

Things were quiet again as Dean considered logic. Sam was not the least bit surprised when his brother smacked the steering wheel in frustration.

"Okay, _fine_ , but Beacon Hills is _not_ a black hole and we are taking more vacations from now on."

"For pie?" asked Sam. Dean nodded.

"Yes. For pie."

 

***

 

Without the illegally-borrowed car, there was absolutely zero reason for Clint and Natasha to bother with a rental when they had military transport at their disposal. In Beacon Hills they drove around with Mel and Talia. Just for laughs, Clint spent a few hours as a ride-along with Casey and came back impossibly smug; apparently Kyle had apologized for showing up on Christmas drunk. It shocked a few years off Casey's life and stroked Clint Barton's ego so badly that Natasha sent him out to get his ass kicked by a werewolf in the backyard. Talia was happy to oblige.

The next day, though, Casey and Mel drove them to the nearest military base, which was about an hour away. Clint was less than thrilled to be going back, Mel noticed.

"Apparently my punishment for stealing the car is this party Tony and Pepper are throwing," said Clint. He rolled his eyes when Melissa looked back at him in open confusion.

"You love parties. Like, real parties, anyway. Maybe less so the family-rated versions," she said.

"No, the werewolf thing was awesome," said Clint, "I loved that."

Natasha allowed a smug grin. "He has to wear a tux to this one. And a bow tie."

"Ooh. Send me pictures," teased Mel. Clint grumbled something in Russian which Natasha seemed to take as a challenge instead of a deterrent and Clint gave up that line quickly.

"You'll love this then," he told Melissa. "I have to go back _today_ for a _fitting_ and Pepper has to sign off on it. So I can't even fake that one. Bow ties and all."

"Aww, poor baby. Dress up and give them a show. If Tasha can do it, you can," said Mel.

"She can do a lot of things I can't do," said Clint without really paying attention to his words. They seemed to hit Natasha and she blinked at him, something else that Clint didn't notice but Melissa did.

"One of those things is look good in a dress and knowing Tony, I'm lucky that the bow tie is the worst of the restricting party clothes I have to suffer through," said Clint.

Melissa looked to Natasha soberly, very sincere as she said, "Promise me you'll send me photos of this."

Clint complained about conspiracies but that was cut short by the airbase check point. The pair in the back seat of the sheriff's SUV each rolled down their windows and handed IDs to the MPs. They had been expected and were allowed inside to a guest parking lot.

There was a car in the lot to pick up Clint and Natasha by the time they had their luggage out of the back of the sheriff's cruiser. Melissa blinked at the suit who jumped out to take their duffles.

"Well. It looks like it's time to get going," she said, surprised at the efficiency. Clint gave a resigned shrug, not in a terrible hurry.

"The plane won't go anywhere without me," he assured her. All the same, he caught her in a hug, his protective streak showing. "You have to stay out of trouble, Mel. I can't come flying out here all the time to save you from yeti-wolves and fairies."

"All the time," mocked Melissa with a roll of her eyes. "Phone calls to make sure I'm still kicking don't count as flying anywhere."

"And it seems to me the last time I made that wellness-check phone call, you neglected to mention the yeti-wolves and fairies thing," replied Clint. "So obviously my policy of trusting your reports has to change."

Mel raised an eyebrow at him. "I don't seem to recall you mentioning aliens attacking Manhattan last time either."

"Classified and please don't make me kill you," he replied. He steepled his hands under his chin to add a quick beg to the request.

"It was a good movie," chimed in Stilinski. "You do good work. Count us as fans."

"Maybe call and give us a heads up on any future projects," added Mel with a smirk.

"Sure thing," lied Clint. He caught the sheriff's offered hand as Mel snuck in a hug on Natasha.

"Thank you for an... interesting Christmas," Natasha said, her voice quiet so as not to catch Clint's attention. It didn't work and the archer just stayed back, grinning a smug grin and far too pleased with himself. Melissa smiled back at him over Natasha's shoulder.

 

***

 

John Watson had seen many things in his life that he could not explain. He had attended women through childbirth. He had seen ugly barren land give way to an oasis of color and plants and animals. He had walked places he would never forget, simply because they felt sacred, down to his bones, and John was not a religious man. He had seen people die and then come back to life.

He had never before that day seen two of Sherlock Holmes staring each other in the face. He never wanted to see such a thing again in his life. The thought of two of them running loose on the planet was terrifying. Ever since Sherlock had come back, John had felt responsible for him, hyper vigilant toward the man's survival. He worried to the point of exhaustion, he snapped and barked and snarled when Sherlock ignored his efforts and still remained his exact self in all of his dangerous, self destructive ways.

John couldn't handle that in duplicate, he just didn't have enough left in him.

"You are positive that is a dryad?" John asked his nephew quietly. Stiles nodded, shuddered in his jacket.

"Trust me, it's a dryad," he reported.

"There aren't actually two of him," said John.

"Right," said Stiles. He looked at John with narrowed eyes. "But don't you dare think about going over there. You and me stay out of it and I don't get killed."

"No intent to die today," said John. He frowned out into the clearing among the trees. "But... Why is it wearing his face?"

"Dunno. I mean, when they were trying to mess with me, they took Mom's face-"

“Wai-they what?"

"-and when they were going after Dad and everybody, they used my face. All I can figure is it has to do with who's most important. Apparently."

John frowned and risked looking away from the twin Sherlocks to his nephew. "So your mom for you and you for your dad and..."

"Sherlock for Sherlock, yep," said Stiles. He shrugged. "That doesn't make much sense though so I think the theory's wrong."

"No, it makes sense," replied John. Knowing Sherlock, it definitely made sense; he was the last person on earth who could have their mind read by a tree-Fae. Stiles' cell phone rang and he quickly shushed it, juggled it and answered it.

"Yeah, buddy," he greeted quietly. "Uhm. Does it count that _I_ still know where I am? Yeah, didn't think so..."

John listened curiously as his nephew reluctantly explained that they hadn't actually gone to Lydia's door because Sherlock wanted to see the dryads, not the fence that had been glamoured. Which was a small _detail that didn't count_ because Scott hadn't asked for more detail than "to Lydia's" when he agreed to play taxi. Then Stiles apologized for crashing his jeep because he missed it too. John shook his head, scratched at his nose and squinted around at the trees. Hopefully the dryads didn't have problems with lies-by-omission.

"No, you have to stay in the car. Don't you dare... Because _werewolf_ , Scott! Don't antagonize the tree-people!" Stiles was quiet but adamant. He stalled out a moment. "Sherlock isn't anything they would want to keep so we're fine. As long as you keep your furry face in the car... Thank you."

John arched an eyebrow as Stiles hurried his way off the phone before Scott changed his mind. It wasn't a long walk, his patience could only be pressed so far, but Stiles' was absolutely certain on the no-werewolf thing so hopefully his friend would believe him. Worrying about it left Stiles agitated though.

"So... Honestly? Werewolves?" John asked, hoping it was a safe distraction from dryads.

"Honestly werewolves," said Stiles. He must have seen the concern on John's face because the teen shrugged it off. "I've known Scott forever. He's still him, still human. It's just that now he can do, well, some really cool stuff."

"Like try to kill you on a full moon?"

"One, he's tried twice and failed twice, so that's not actually a thing he wants to do," said Stiles. "And two, the full moon thing is kind of a myth. I mean, there's some truth to it, but the rest of us go a little crazy on the full moon too."

John frowned and tucked into his jacket. "I'm not sure which of us is worse off. You for living with werewolves or me for believing you."  
It didn't help that Stiles' only reply was one of his mother's crazy smiles.

 

***


	25. Chapter 25

December 29th

 

"I will never understand how you are friends with Peter."

Sitting in the barely furnished kitchen of his mom's condo, Derek looked over at his sister like she had grown a second head. "Who the hell told you that?"

Cora rolled her eyes at him. "The fact that you live with him and haven't killed him? I've been babysitting the depressed jerk for like two weeks and I want to rip his throat out."

Waiting for his sister to catch on, Derek nodded slowly. "I live with the jerk _because_ somebody has to babysit him. If he goes psycho again, I put him down."

"Again." Stiles appeared from the hallway, Scott at his shoulder. Mel and Talia waved briefly before disappearing into the den. As Stiles settled onto the barstool beside Derek at the kitchen island, the wolf glared at him with his usual flat expression.

"Thank you, that was helpful," said Derek.

"Anytime." Stiles smirked and winked for good measure. Derek looked away from the taunt and back to his sister to defend his reputation.

"Peter knows I don't like him," he said.

"He knows none of us like him," added Stiles. He shrugged. "But we're the only people who will tolerate him. Which, you know, I can relate to that."

Cora didn't quite agree. "Mom likes him, Mel likes him..."

Holding back a laugh, Derek raised an eyebrow at his sister. "Chris wants to kill him, Casey wants to lock him up and forget where they left the key..."

Stiles frowned suddenly and crossed his arms, uncomfortably contemplative. "I can relate to _that_ , too, actually. Can we stop talking about Peter? It's making me reevaluate my life choices."

"Why are you even _here_?" asked Cora. Stiles shrugged at her.

"Loophole. I can hang out at Scott's. Ergo I can be where Scott's mom is. Ergo when Scott's mom is here, I can be here."

"Why don't you just _sneak out_ like normal people?" asked Cora, less than impressed with Stiles' legal maneuverings around being grounded.

Stiles shrugged. "Because I took Sherlock to meet the dryads yesterday and got grounded again."

Derek's eyes bugged. "Oh my g- I'm going to _kill_ you."

Stiles shrugged it off.  "Scott let me do it."

That oversimplification wasn't going to fly and Scott shook his head. "I did not and don't even try-"

The sudden reopening of an issue Stiles had thought would disappear seemed to annoy him and he rolled his eyes. "Uncle John and I are, like, seventy percent certain Sherlock is at least one-eighth dryad. Everything worked out but dad got pissed."

That drew an involuntary huff of sarcastic laughter from Derek and he glowered at Stiles. " _I'm_ pissed."

Scott nodded his agreement. "Tell me about it. _I_ got lectured when mom found out. I wasn't even part of it."

That only made Derek more frustrated and he cuffed Stiles on the back of the head. Stiles was slow to dodge and came back up smug so Derek tried it again. "You're an idiot."

"You're just jealous that _my_ uncles aren't psychopaths," said Stiles, smug.

Another short laugh from Derek. "Are you feeling okay?"

Stiles grinned dangerously at him. "Awesome. _All_ better. Wanna test it?"

The flirting was noticed and Cora pulled a face at her brother. She grabbed a corner of Scott's jacket to get his attention. "Scott, I think there's a movie playing right now that we can still catch."

"Great idea," said Scott with a nod.

Stiles agreed quickly. " _Brilliant_ even."

Cora and Scott scattered and Stiles cornered Derek against the bar. His attention split, Derek didn't actually protest the invasion of his space. Still, just to rile Stiles a little, he called after them, "Don't leave him here!"

 

***

 

“So... I guess Sherlock found new evidence that disproves, like, all of _reality_ ,” said Stiles by way of greeting his uncle. John looked back over his shoulder at him as the teenager plopped down on the back porch steps beside him.

“Oh?” John asked mildly. Stiles nodded.

“Kyle and the DA dropped the stuff he was looking in to on me and Lydia and Allison. Like, _it’s-the-other-guys-fault_ dropped it and we don’t even have to testify now,” he said. He tapped a finger to the side of his head. “Fragile teenaged psyches and all.”

“Huh,” said John. He looked out at the quaint, peaceful rural neighborhood and the high clouds, a faint smile on his face. “Imagine that. He’s really good at his job, you know.”

“Yeah, I, uh, I gathered that.” Stiles looked at John, openly assessing. The pair were quiet for a moment before he finally asked, “That’s why you brought him out here, isn’t it? I mean, you could have just come to visit on your own. You didn’t even have to come visit - I mean, I’m glad you did, but you don’t normally, you know? ...And that still sounded way worse than I meant it.” Stiles hung his head and rubbed at his temples with his thumbs. “You know what I mean!”

John let the grin slip then and he looked over at his nephew. “I came out to visit because I realized it had been a long time since I had seen you in person. Emails just aren’t the same, and I’m shit for phone calls, you know that. But you’re my little sister’s boy, and I realized... you know, I didn’t want the next time I saw you to be at another _funeral_.” He shrugged. “It just so happened that I could bring someone along who... well, maybe I hoped he could fix things for you. Or at least help a little.”

“He helped a lot, actually,” said Stiles. He scrubbed a hand through his hair and huffed. “He’s annoying as hell and thanks-no-thanks for giving my dad the spoiler-alert, but, yeah, he definitely helped. I never would have forgiven him if he got Derek arrested though. Or shot.”

John smiled impishly and buffed his nails on his jacket sleeve. “All according to plan. You are most welcome...”

“Ha!” The laugh made Stiles smile back at him. John looked out onto the street again and then the clouds overhead.

“I guess the question is,” he said mildly, “What the hell do we do with him for the rest of the trip if he’s already taken care of the one distraction I had lined up for him?”

Stiles shook his head. “No problem. There’s a line of cases waiting to be rejected on the front porch already.”

 

***

 

January 2nd

 

They said their goodbyes the day after New Years. It had been an eventful two weeks abroad, but if he was honest, John missed the simplicity of Sherlock’s serial killers and their mind games just a little bit. Werewolves were still a hard thing for him to get his mind wrapped around. But John was content that his sister’s family was better able to handle the situation than he was, particularly since it had been a little over a week since Stiles had stolen anyone’s car. He didn’t so much as borrow John’s rental so the pre-emptive house-arrest grounding seemed to be doing the trick. It had been a good trip, all told, and John finished it up with a drive through the California countryside. John put himself in charge of getting to the airport unsupervised, with only a map and Sherlock’s occasional commentary on his bad navigation skills. A nice, quiet, adventure in driving with plenty of time before their nighttime flight.

The companionable quiet was relaxing. John risked a glance over at his friend and dared break the peace.

“I meant to say thank you. For this trip. For getting along with everyone,” he said, sincere. It was something he had been rattling around in his head and it all still came out wrong, but he had to at least try. “It... well, it means a great deal to me. All the work you went to and your patience, and-”

“Californians are simple and quite frankly plebeian but I was not tortured, John. A few moments were actually enjoyable,” interrupted Sherlock. He was still calm and what passed for content from the man.

“Glad to hear it,” said John blandly. “But I still appreciate the effort you put into the times that weren’t enjoyable. And sorting out the mess from Tahoe.”

“That wasn’t complicated at all,” said Sherlock with a roll of his eyes. “And as that idiot so-called federal agent was only making things a bigger mess all entirely... I wasn’t going to leave him to hang Stiles for it.”

“Thank you,” repeated John. “I appreciate it. That’s all.”

Sherlock hummed his acknowledgement of the gesture and John figured it was best left at that. The car got quiet again and his attention wandered back out to the road he was driving on the wrong side of. They were surrounded by empty stretches of winter-yellow fields, rolling foothills and little messy towns that the GPS didn’t bother to tell them the names of as they drove through. John started to point out a peculiar looking barn - it looked rather like a Dalek, actually - when he noticed that Sherlock had pulled out his mobile. He was holding the piece of paper that Stiles had given him before they had left the house. John huffed at him.

“You are not really-” Sherlock interrupted him by holding up a hand and requesting silence. John sighed and glared out the window.

“Yes, hello,” said Sherlock into the phone after a moment. “I’m looking for Jackson Whit- Oh, that’s you? Good, good. And you’re located in London?” There was a pause. “Yes, as a matter of fact, this is a local number. I’m a consultant for the London police force - No, there’s no trouble. I was just wondering if you could answer a question for me.”

John took his eyes off the road to glare at his friend. “You aren’t really... Don’t do it, Sherlock. Don’t you dare-”

Again, Sherlock ignored him. “Are you a werewolf?” he asked into the phone. There was a pause. “Hel- Jackson?”

“I cannot believe you just did that to the boy,” muttered John.

“I can.” Sherlock put his phone away and grinned out the windshield. “Contacts, John,” he said, smug. “They have to be carefully established.”

 

***

 

The End!

(...until the next one...)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> MaNy ThAnKs to chi1013 because she ended up betaing her Christmas present anyway. ;) This has been mostly finished for a month now but the betas have been juggling the beta-thing with their real-lives and I am so much saner for it! And it's all HilaryParker54's fault from start to finish too, so give the two of them hugs and kudos for their work on this project.
> 
> Hope you enjoyed!


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